WAR      LETTERS      OF 
AN   AMERICAN    WOMAN 


THE   AUTHOR   AT   SALSOMAGGIORE,    SEPTEMBER,    1915 


WAR      LETTERS      OF 
AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

BY     MARIE     VAN     VORST 
WITH    ELEVEN    ILLUSTRATIONS 


LONDON  :     JOHN    LANE,    THE    BODLEY    HEAD 
NEW  YORK  :   JOHN  LANE  COMPANY      MCMXVI 


WILLIAM   CLOWES   AND   SONS,    LIMITED,    LONDON   AND    EECCLES,    ENGLAND 


DEDICATION 


I  INSCRIBE  these  letters,  written  during  the  Great 
War  in  the  countries  at  war,  to  Comte  HENRY 
DADVISARD,  Captain  of  the  First  Regiment  of 
Cuirassiers,  which  he  left  voluntarily  to  join  the 
66th  Regiment  of  Infantry,  in  order  to  give  him- 
self more  entirely  to  the  defence  of  his  country. 

The  memory  of  this  gallant  soldier  of  France 
is  to  me  a  precious  and  a  cherished  memory. 
I  shall  recall  him  always  as  one  of  the  most  vivid 
spirits,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  intellects,  one  of 
the  finest  men  I  ever  knew. 

This  young  Frenchman  fought  and  fell  glori- 
ously, as  hundreds  of  thousands  of  young  English- 
men and  Frenchmen  have  fought  and  fallen 
gloriously.  Their  spirit  lives,  their  courage  and 
patriotism  live,  to  animate  and  inspire  these  allied 
nations,  whom  no  less  spiritual  power  will  ever 
conquer,  and  with  whose  Cause  is  the  ultimate 
victory. 

M.  V.  V. 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACE  PAGE 

THE  AUTHOR Frontispiece 

HUGUES  LE  ROUX H 

MRS.  VICTOR  MORAWETZ 48 

A   WARD    IN    THE    AMERICAN    AMBULANCE    AT 

NEUILLY no 

MADAME  HUGUES  LE  Roux      .       .       .       .       .140 

THE  HON.  ROBERT  BACON        .....  190 

MRS.  BENJAMIN  GUINNESS 204 

VICOMTE  EDGAR  DE  BRESSON 218 

DR.  JOSEPH  BLAKE 246 

MRS.  WILLIAM  K.  VANDERBILT  AND  MRS.  GEORGE 

MUNROE 250 

COMTE  HENRY  DADVISARD 296 


WAR      LETTERS      OF 
AN    AMERICAN    WOMAN 


To  Signor  Gaetano  Cagiati,  Vallombrosa. 

4,  PLACE  DU  PALAIS  BOURBON,  PARIS, 
July  15th,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  GAETANO, 

I  think  your  idea  that  I  should  come 
down  to  Vallombrosa  and  spend  a  month  there 
and  finish  my  book  is  splendid.  The  very  name 
"  Vallombrosa  "  has  no  end  of  charm.  It  sounds 
like  shadows.  I  can  fancy  great  wooded  distances. 
It  sounds  dark  and  cool  and  remote. 

I  have  always  wanted  to  see  Italy  in  mid- 
summer. I  want  awfully  to  know  the  country 
around  Florence  in  summer  time.  There  are 
such  beautiful  descriptions  of  it  in  the  "  Lys 
Rouge." 

Do  you  think  you  could  get  me  a  nice  little  suite 
of  rooms  in  an  inexpensive  hotel  ?  You  must  be 
sure  that  there  is  a  balcony  with  a  view  of  Florence 
from  it.  I  shall  bring  my  secretary  and  my  maid, 
and  finish  "  Mary  Moreland,"  and  begin  my  new 
novel,  "  Carmichel's  Past."  It  will  be  too  much 
fun  for  words  to  work  in  that  silence,  and  then 
have  some  long  walks  with  you  and  see  the  baby. 

ii 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

If  she  is  anything  like  her  photograph,  she  is  a 
darling  little  creature. 

Then,  too,  it  will  be  amusing  to  see  the  Italian 
life.  I  long  to  come.  Let  me  know  what  the 
possibilities  are. 

Yours  as  ever, 
M. 


To  Miss  Mabel  McGinnis,  Rome. 

4,  PLACE  DU  PALAIS  BOURBON,  PARIS, 
July  20th,  1914. 

DEAREST  MABEL, 

I  shall  see  you,  I  hope,  for  I  am  coming 
to  Italy.  I  want  to  go  to  Vallombrosa  for  the 
month  of  August  and  see  something  of  Margaret's 
little  child  and  Gaetano.  After  Vallombrosa 
(and  you  may  even  care  to  come  there,  too),  we'll 
do  something  together. 

Mabel,  I've  only  been  home  here  in  Paris  a 
short  while,  and  yet  I  am  keen  to  get  away.  My 
little  house  is  settled  and  charming,  and  yet  in 
it  I  have  the  most  curious  spirit  ot  unrest.  Mabel, 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  there  seems  a  menace 
over  everything.  What  can  it  mean  ?  In  all  my 
life  I  have  never  had  such  a  strange,  strained, 
tense  feeling.  Sometimes  at  night  I  can't  sleep 
and  on  several  occasions  I've  gotten  up  and  thrown 

12 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

open  my  shutters  and  looked  out  over  the  familiar 
little  Place,  over  the  roofs,  to  the  sky ;  and  the 
most  curious  sense  of  peril  seems  to  brood  over 
everything  in  sight.  What  can  it  mean  ?  There 
have  been  times  when  I  could  hardly  catch  my 
breath  for  the  oppression  on  my  heart. 

Of  course  it's  purely  physical.  You  would 
think  that  I  should  feel  more  at  peace  in  my  own 
home ;  but  I  want  to  get  away.  I  am  glad  I 
am  going  to  Italy.  I  long  to  go. 

Yours  as  ever, 

M. 

To  Signor  Gaetano  Cagiati,   Vallombrosa. 

PARIS,  July  25th,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  GAETANO, 

You  can't  think  with  what  joy  I  look 
forward  to  Italy.  The  strange  spirit  of  unrest 
here  is  now  taking  a  more  definite  form.  On 
every  one's  lips  is  the  question  :  "  Will  there  be 
war  ?  " 

Of  course,  my  point  of  view  is  as  little  interest- 
ing as  possible,  but  I  think  there  will.  Hugues 
Le  Roux,  however,  for  whose  opinion  I  have 
the  greatest  respect,  laughed  at  me  when  I  said  so, 
so  I  fancy  I  am  too  easily  alarmed. 

"  Rassurez-vous,"  he  said  to  me  yesterday  ; 
13 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

"  et  partez  en  paix.     Enjoy  Italy  to  the  full. 
There  will  not  be  any  war,  my  dear." 

Of  course,  if  there  should  be  war,  it  wouldn't 
last  long — not  in  the  twentieth  century  ;  and  no 
one  wants  it.  There  would  be,  perhaps,  a  few 
skirmishes  on  the  frontiers,  and  then  everything 
would  be  arranged  diplomatically. 

So  look  out  for  us  next  week.     We'll  be  along. 

As  ever, 

M. 

To  Mr.   Cagiati,   Vallombrosa. 

PARIS,  July  soth,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  GAETANO, 

All  the  pretty  things  I've  had  made  to 
wear  at  Vallombrosa,  all  the  pretty  things  I've 
had  made  to  bring  down  for  the  baby,  will  lie 
around  in  trunks  or  hang  about  unused.  We're 
not  coming  down  to  Italy,  my  dear  friend. 

This  will  be  a  disappointment  to  you.  It  is 
a  great  one  to  me.  But,  as  I  telegraphed  you, 
we're  not  coming. 

This  afternoon,  I  had  all  my  trunks  on  the 
omnibus.  I  was  just  getting  in  with  my  dressing 
case,  when  I  thought  I'd  go  over  and  take  a  last 
farewell  of  Bessie — see  her  once  more  before  I 
went  away.  As  I  went  in,  I  found  Robert  Le 
Roux  having  tea  with  her.  Just  as  soon  as  I 

14 


HUGUES   LE    ROUX 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

came  in,  he  got  up  quickly  and  came  over  and  took 
my  hand  and  said  : 

"  Ma  chere  amie,  vous  ne  pouvez  pas  partir 
pour  1'Italie  !  " 

"  But,  Robert,  why  not  ?  " 

"  Vous  ne  pouvez  pas  partir." 

"  But  all  my  trunks  are  on  the  omnibus,  and 
I've  got  my  tickets  !  We're  just  ready  to  go  !  " 

"  Nepartezpas." 

His  tone  was  so  serious  that,  even  as  I  spoke, 
I  felt  a  whole  wave  of  apprehension  rush  over  me  ; 
and  just  in  that  moment  it  seemed  as  though  this 
menace  that  I'd  felt  was  beginning  to  take  form. 
'  You  mean "  I  began. 

"Vous  aurez  peut-etre  des  ennuis,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  wanted  to  come  back  hurriedly  to  your 
mother." 

"  Robert,"  I  said,  "  you  really  mean  to  say 
that  you  think  it's  so  serious  ?  " 

I  shall  never  forget  the  face  of  that  Frenchman 
as  he  answered  me,  never  ! 

"  Ma  chere  Marie,  c'est  la  Guerre  !  " 

*  *  *  *  * 

My  dear  Gaetano,  the  trees  of  Vallombrosa 
will  shed  their  beautiful  leaves  and  I  shall  not  see 
them  fall. 

God  alone  knows  whether  what  Le  Roux  fears 
will  come  true.  Heavens,  what  will  it  mean  ! 

15 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To-night,  as  I  sit  here  writing  to  you,  in  my 
little  study  high  above  this  beautiful  and  beloved 
Paris,  I  can  only  hear  that  one  sentence  ringing 
its  sinister  and  tragic  message  through  my  heart 
and  brain  : 

"  C'est  la  Guerre." 

M. 


To  Mrs.   Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 
CAVENDISH  HOTEL,  LONDON,  August  4th,  1914- 

MY  DEAR  VIOLET, 

My  first  cable  from  Paris  gave  you 
Parr's  Bank  as  my  address  in  London.  .  .  .  That 
was  last  week,  when  people  were  fairly  fighting 
for  funds  in  Paris.  I  have  had  no  letters  from 
you  since  the  war  cloud  rose,  but  I  am  sure  that 
you  have  tried  to  reach  me,  and  that  you  are  all 
of  you  ignorant  of  the  money  crisis  here.  .  .  . 

Molly  would  not  come  across  the  Channel  with 
me,  but  said  she  preferred  returning  to  Deauville 
to  stay  with  the  Kings.  She  said  John  King  was 
a  splendid  manager  and  would  take  fine  care  of 
her,  and  that  it  was  wonderful  to  be  with  a  man  at 
a  time  like  this,  and  with  a  man  who  had  plenty 
of  money — good  reasons !  But  nevertheless,  a 
mere  woman,  with  a  very  limited  sum  of  money, 

16 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  left  Paris  successfully,  taking  my  secretary, 
three  servants,  and  all  my  luggage  and  all 
Mother's  luggage,  and  moving  Mother — no  joke 
— to  London.  Two  hours  after  I  left,  there  were 
thousands  fighting  for  entrance  at  the  Gare  du 
Nord,  and  thousands  of  pieces  of  luggage  were 
left  to  wait  or  take  what  fate  befell  them  in  the 
station.  I  feel  rather  more  shamed  than  anything 
else  to  have  been  so  successful  when  millionaires 
and  men  all  over  the  country  have  not  been  able 
to  get  out  of  France  yet. 

/  did  not  want  to  get  out.  It  has  taken  me  three 
days  to  write  this  letter  and  I  don't  like  even  to 
speak  of  what  I  have  been  through.  It  has  not 
been  material  hardship,  but  moral  and  mental  and 
spiritual,  to  the  extent  of  the  greatest  strain 
possible.  ...  I  put  off  going  as  long  as  I  could, 
and  was  just  about  to  go  in  to  dinner  with  Bessie 
and  Robert  Le  Roux  when  Molly  called  me  up  on 
the  telephone  and  said  she  had  arrived  from 
Deauville  to  say  good-bye  to  her  brother,  who  was 
going  through  to  Switzerland  in  his  car  to  fetch 
his  children  from  St.  Moritz.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
at  night.  I  found  Molly  at  the  Rhin  and  we 
talked  about  the  situation,  which  was  then  per- 
fectly calm  and  in  no  wise  decisive  ;  and  I  begged 
her  to  come  to  London  with  me  next  day.  ...  I 
sat  with  her  in  the  dear  old  Rhin  till  midnight, 

17  B 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

then  walked  quietly  home,  at  half-past  twelve, 
through  the  Tuileries,  under  the  moonlight.  The 
streets  were  not  in  the  least  excited.  You  see, 
the  troops  had  not  even  been  mobilised.  Nothing 
was  decisive — only  the  horrible,  horrible  strain  in 
the  air.  When  I  got  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay  Hotel,  I 
wanted  awfully  to  speak  to  Le  Roux,  and  I  called 
him  downstairs.  He  was  very  agitated  and  said 
that  Jaures  had  just  been  assassinated  on  the 
boulevard  and  that  war  was  inevitable.  I  did 
not  tell  him  my  project  to  leave,  but  went  home 
to  my  house.  ...  It  was  so  tranquil  and  lovely — 
everything  in  such  beautiful  order  and  so  sweet. 
I  wondered  whether  I  had  better  try  to  stock  the 
place  with  provisions  the  foil  owing  day  and  remain ; 
but  I  then  decided  that  it  would  be  difficult  for 
Mother  to  go  about  in  Paris,  and  that  as  I  could 
not  protect  her,  I  had  no  right  to  consider  any- 
thing but  her  safety. 

It's  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  I  did  not 
close  my  eyes,  and  I  thought  out  the  best  route 
to  go  quietly  to  London.  At  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  I  called  up  the  Gare  du  Nord,  and  just  as 
soon  as  the  telephonist  told  me  that  they  had  not 
been  able  to  talk  with  them  all  night  long,  I  knew 
that  Newhaven  would  be  best.  I  ordered  an 
omnibus  from  the  Gare  St.  Lazare,  then  through 
the  telephone  I  told  Mother's  companion  to 
18 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

prepare  to  leave  the  house  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  with  everything  she  could  take — not 
because  I  feared  a  siege,  but  because  I  thought  I 
should  probably  never  be  able  to  bring  Mother 
back  to  Paris. 

I  did  not  wake  my  own  servants  till  five  ;  then 
I  called  them  downstairs  and  after  once  telling 
them  what  I  wanted,  I  knew  that  I  should  have 
no  further  need  to  think  what  should  be  done,  for 
they  were  so  capable  and  so  perfect.  I  told  them 
I  wanted  to  take  as  much  as  I  could  with  me  and 
to  leave  at  eight.  Meanwhile,  Webb  had  already 
packed  all  my  personal  things  for  Italy,  where — 
as  you  know — I  was  to  have  gone  two  days 
earlier.  I  gave  that  up  because  of  the  uncertainty 
of  being  able  to  return.  Then  I  called  up  my 
secretary  at  her  hotel  and  told  her  to  be  ready  as 
well.  .  .  .  When  the  station  omnibus  came,  it 
refused  to  take  my  luggage.  Just  then,  I  saw  a 
wine  delivery-truck  going  up  the  Rue  de  Bour- 
gogne,  and  I  stopped  the  man  and  offered  him 
twenty  francs  to  take  all  my  things  to  the  station. 
He  accepted.  My  secretary  went  up  to  fetch 
Mother,  and  my  maid  and  the  manservant  went  to 
the  station  with  the  luggage.  I  took  the  man  on 
account  of  Mother,  not  knowing  whether  she  might 
be  taken  ill  on  the  way,  and  meaning  to  send  him 
back  from  Newhaven,  as  he  is  a  Frenchman  and  of 

19 


course  I  had  no  intention  of  keeping  him.  My 
little  cook  Rose,  whom  you  remember,  so  sweet  and 
pretty,  cried  and  begged  me  to  take  her  with  me. 
Then  I  paid  no  more  attention  to  my  mobilised 
army,  but  went  over  to  see  Molly  again  and  we 
went  to  the  American  Express  to  book  passages  on 
the  France  for  her  return  to  America.  They  had  to 
pay  frs.  12,000  for  their  accommodation,  and  there 
was  a  perfect  fight  and  mob  in  the  shipping 
office.  As  my  train  left  at  ten,  you  will  see  that 
I  hadn't  much  time.  Telling  Molly  that  if  I  could 
possibly  do  so  and  feel  it  safe,  I  would  let  Mother 
go  on  with  her  escort  and  come  back  to  her  and 
take  a  later  train,  I  left  her.  At  the  train,  I  found 
everything  most  perfectly  put  through.  It  only 
looked  like  an  ordinary  August  exodus — rather 
crowded  and  rushed,  but  no  frightful  excitement. 
Mother  was  sitting  there  enthroned,  and  after 
sitting  by  her  side  and  realising  the  efficiency  of 
every  one  around  her  and  that  all  would  go  well, 
I  left  her  and  went  back  to  Molly  and  Bessie .  When 
I  got  outside  the  station,  there  was  the  carriage 
waiting  for  me  and  by  the  wheel  stood  Bessie, 
who  had  come  to  see  me  off.  We  went  together 
back  to  the  American  Express  and  found  Molly, 
and  we  stayed  together  for  a  little  tune  and  then 
took  Molly  to  her  train  at  one  o'clock,  when  she 
made  a  very  passable  sortie  with  her  maid  and 
20 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

all  her  luggage.  I  mention  these  details  because'so 
soon  afterwards  the  aspect  was  changed.  If  we 
had  not  gone  when  we  did,  probably  I  and  my 
party  could  not  have  gone  at  all — certainly  not 
with  any  belongings — and  probably  Mother  would 
have  collapsed,  as  people  were  trampled  on 
later.  ...  I  went  away  with  no  personal  elan 
whatever.  ...  I  wanted  to  stay  in  the  place  I 
love  the  best  in  the  world.  .  .  .  All  the  way  to 
Dieppe  I  was  alone  in  the  carriage — just  fancy  ! — 
and  on  the  next  train  they  were  hanging  on  to 
the  carriages  !  When  I  reached  Dieppe,  they  told 
me  that  no  boat  would  go  out  for  days  and  I  began 
to  drink  in  the  fact  that  probably  I  should  not  be 
able  to  get  across  the  Channel  to  Mother,  who  had 
gone  on  serenely.  I  had  just  decided  to  take  the 
train  back  to  Paris  when  the  counter-news  came 
that  the  boat  would  run  at  midnight.  ...  I  don't 
think  I  had  anything  to  eat  for  two  days.  (I  can't 
remember  a  meal  at  all.)  I  did  eat  something 
then  and  took  a  bath  and  rested,  going  on  board 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  then  the  rush 
had  begun.  Three  boats  went  out  that  night  and 
not  one  article  of  luggage  came  through  from  Paris  ! 
When  I  got  here,  I  found  the  family  com- 
fortably installed.  ...  I  have  taken  a  small 
house  just  outside  London  for  Mother,  and  she 
goes  there  to-day  with  her  companion.  .  .  . 

21 


The  aspect  of  London  is  thrilling.  The 
city  is  full  of  manifestants  all  the  time — proces- 
sions of  them  going  through  the  streets  cheering 
for  France  and  going  down  to  Buckingham  Palace. 
I  do  not  feel  that  anyone  who  is  not  closely  in 
touch  with  the  political  question  can  judge  of 
England's  tardy  decision,  because  they  must  be 
preparing  for  some  coup,  and  perhaps  the  very 
hesitation  will  be  for  France's  ultimate  benefit. 
But  the  strain  beggars  description  and  if  felt  here 
like  this,  so  that  we  can  almost  feel  the  tension 
snap,  what  must  it  be  hi  Paris  ?  Every  one  has 
been  enthusiastic  here  over  the  quiet  dignity  of 
the  French  and  the  way  they  have  borne  this 
wait.  I  personally  feel  most  secure  in  the  fact 
that  France  is  going  to  be  victorious.  It  couldn't 
be  otherwise.  .  .  . 

I  hope  that  the  American  enthusiasm  is  strong 
for  the  country  that  stood  by  it  in  the  War  of 
Independence.  .  .  . 

There  have  been  no  mails  through  from  France 
to-day.  .  .  . 

The  fact  that  England  is  a  partial  ally  is  a 
comfort,  but  it  is  hard  enough  to  be  here  as  I  am, 
even  in  these  circumstances.  .  .  . 

My  plan  is  to  return  to  Paris,  if  I  can  get 
through,  once  I  am  convinced  of  Mother's  safety 
here.  .  .  . 

22 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  Mr.  Gaetano  Cagiati,  Rome. 

LONDON,  August  yth,  1914. 

DEAR  GAETANO, 

...  I  am  full  of  enthusiasm  over  the 
attitude  of  the  countries  I  love — France,  where  my 
heart  is  so  deeply,  and,  as  you  know,  my  home  for 
twenty-five  years  ;  Belgium,  where  my  cousins 
are  and  whose  ancestry  is  close  to  mine — for  I  am 
Dutch  and  French ;  and  now  Italy,  holding  out 
against  this  brutal  tyranny,  this  barbaric,  dis- 
gusting materialism.  It  would  have  been  a  cruel 
blow  to  me  if  Italy  had  turned  against  France — 
just  one  blow  more  !  How  glad  I  am  that  she  did 
not !  I  foresee  the  fact  that  Italy  will  have  to 
fight  and  that  perhaps  they  will  call  upon  older 
men  to  go  to  service.  .  .  .  And  then  England, 
interesting  in  the  extreme  !  I  am  so  grateful  not 
to  be  in  an  unfriendly  country.  .  .  . 

What    a    different    August    to    the    one    we 
planned  !  .  .  . 


To  Bessie  van  Vorst,  Paris. 

Aug.  I4th,  1914. 

.  .  ,  We  hear  all  sorts  of  rumours.     Would 
you    tell    me    if   they    are    correct  ?     That    the 
23 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Champs  Elysees  is  a  vast  camp  for  soldiers,  that 
people  are  held  up  by  sentries  in  the  streets  at  the 
point  of  the  bayonet ;  that  nobody  goes  out  after 
eight  at  night,  and  that  Paris  is  not  lighted  ? 
A  friend  of  M.'s  who  has  just  arrived  took  thirty- 
six  hours  to  come  .  .  . 

We  understand  that  there  are  50,000  English 
in  Amiens  and  50,000  in  Brussels.  The  Territorials 
fill  the  streets  and  are  camping  in  some  of  the  big 
parks.  .  .  . 

I  also  hear  that  there  is  no  milk  in  Paris.  Tell 
me  everything.  .  .  . 

Molly  came  hi  at  2  o'clock  to-day.  .  .  .  She 
says  that  their  life  at  Deauville  had  become 
impossible.  They  had  to  get  a  fresh  permis  de 
sejour  every  day — all  of  them.  .  .  . 

We  are  kept  in  complete  darkness  regarding 
the  movement  of  troops.  No  one  in  England 
knows  where  the  soldiers  are. 


To  Mr.  Cagiati,  Rome. 

Aug.  i4th,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  GAETANO, 

.  .  .  How  far  away  the  peaceful  days 

of  autrefois  seem,  and  how  impossible  the  evening 

walks  across   the   Place  de  la  Concorde  and  the 

gardens  of  the  Tuileries  !    They  tell  me  no  one  is 

24 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

allowed  abroad  in  Paris  after  dark,  but  I  am 
ignorant  of  the  state  of  the  city  beyond  what  you 
read  in  Bessie's  letters.  .  .  . 

We  do  not  know  how  safe  England  is.  How 
can  we  know,  or  what  the  food  problem  will 
be  ?  although  every  one  is  optimistic  and  the 
Government  is  acting  magnificently  all  along  the 
line. 

The  state  of  affairs  seems  to  have  awakened  the 
verse-writing  spirit  and  there  have  been  several 
beautiful  poems  in  the  papers.  And  I  think  the 
editorials  of  the  papers  themselves  are  stunning. 
I  have  sent  you  some  clippings.  .  .  . 

For  the  past  ten  days  we  have  been  working 
five  hours  a  day,  taking  the  Red  Cross  lectures. 
We  were  supposed  to  do  in  twelve  consecutive 
lessons  what,  as  a  rule,  it  takes  twelve  weeks  to 
perform.  The  class  looked  for  twenty  members 
and  two  thousand  came  !  It  is  taught  by  the 
most  celebrated  Red  Cross  man  in  Europe — Dr. 
Cantlie,  the  writer  of  the  manuals — and  it  was  an 
extraordinary  piece  of  luck  to  come  under  his 
instruction.  The  work  is  fascinating  and  it  has 
served  to  fill  in  these  dreary  days  of  strain,  loneli- 
ness and  indecision.  I  took  the  first  examination 
yesterday,  but  could  not  hope  to  pass  and  am 
perfectly  prepared  to  fail  and  to  begin  again  next 
week.  The  time  was  too  short.  But  I  am  going 

25 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

to  do  it  to  the  finish.  .  .  .  There  were  funny  sides 
to  it — the  crowds  of  English  spinsters  who  rushed 
to  the  fore,  and  the  little  messenger  boys  who 
were  haled  in  from  the  streets  to  be  bandaged.  But 
when  you  think  that  only  eight  hours'  journey  from 
us  four  million  men  are  on  the  battlefield,  it  will 
not  be  astonishing  if  many  hands  are  needed,  and 
if  all  the  hands  are  not  expert,  they  will  be  better 
than  nothing.  There  has  never  been  such  a 
horrible  condition  of  affairs  in  the  history  of  the 
world,  and  you,  so  far  away,  quiet  and  protected, 
cannot  imagine  what  the  mental  strain  is  of 
waiting  for  the  news.  It  is  a  moment  of  big 
issues  and  I  think  that  souls  will  be  bigger  for  the 
times.  Certainly  the  attitude  of  England,  all  the 
way  down  the  file,  has  been  superb.  And  as  for 
Germany,  I  don't  know  what  you've  heard,  but 
its  barbaric  atrocities  have  disgusted  and  horrified 
the  very  coldest  of  judges.  Their  last  deed  was 
to  put  women  and  children  before  the  ranks  of 
soldiers,  so  that  the  French  would  not  fire  upon 
them. 

.  .  .  It  takes  36  hours  to  get  back  to  Paris,  and 
lines  of  red  tape,  and  passports,  and  all  sorts  of 
formalities  ;  and  now  that  I  have  no  servants  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  ...  It  is  lonely  here 
and  it  will  be  lonely  there. 


26 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

LONDON,  August  i8th,  1914. 

It  is  hard  to  believe  that  anything  so  beautiful 
and  so  unspoilt  as  London  can  exist  in  this 
twentieth  century.  I  have  never  been  here  so 
long  at  one  time.  Think  of  that !  The  streets 
are  full  of  picturesque  sights.  The  other  night  on 
Piccadilly,  I  saw  a  poor  stone-blind  man  with  his 
little  dog,  tapping  his  way  along  the  pavement 
with  his  stick.  A  news  vendor  stopped  to  give  him 
viva-voce  the  last  war  news  :  I  heard  him  whisper 
it  in  the  poor  fellow's  ear.  .  .  . 

I  have  never  realized  before  how  lovely  the 
houses  are.  Town  houses  of  all  possible  colours — 
white  as  snow,  their  window-boxes  full  of  pale 
pink  geraniums  ;  a  pea-green  house  with  red  doors. 
None  of  them  over  three  stories  high  in  any  of 
these  streets.  And  of  all  the  softest  shades  and 
tones. 

Then  there's  the  brown  cloud  of  soldiers, 
driven  here  and  there  through  the  streets — the 
Territorials  in  their  dust-coloured  uniforms 
flowing  in  from  the  country-side  everywhere — 
picturesque  and  ominous.  These  forces  are  to 
be  exchanged  for  the  troops  from  India,  when 
they  arrive.  The  military  precision,  the  quiet 

27 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

strength  with  which  all  these  operations  have  been 
carried  out,  the  secrecy,  and  the  patience  of  the 
people,  have  been  very  impressive.  .  .  . 

When  you  receive  this  letter,  you  will  probably 
know  more  than  I  know  now.  Perhaps  some 
terrible  continental  disaster  will  have  saddened 
this  England  that  now  so  gallantly  and  in  such 
a  dignified  way  sends  its  brotherly  response  to 
France  and  Belgium. 

.  .  .  This  morning  I  went  to  the  hospital 
and  worked  with  the  Red  Cross  people  until  half- 
past  one.  Then  luncheon.  Then  a  lecture  from 
two  till  five.  .  .  . 

You  are  following  the  course  of  this  war  and 
I  need  not  refer  to  any  of  the  details.  Our 
personal  safety  is  your  chief  interest.  It  seems 
assured.  German  successes  would  change  our 
feelings,  of  course.  Aeroplanes  might  drop  their 
bombs  upon  us.  But  we  only  think  of  victory. 
The  German  spy  business  here  is  a  vital  question, 
and  they  say  that  the  proprietor  of  the  Astoria  in 
Paris  was  shot  and  the  hotel  closed.  .  .  . 

I  am  working  for  my  Red  Cross  examinations 
and  enjoying  the  work  tremendously.  .  .  . 

Mother  is  in  a  little  house  .  .  .  surrounded  by 
a  perfectly  beautiful  garden,  in  an  ideal  country 
village.  I  went  out  there  on  Sunday  and  found 

28 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

her  sitting  by  the  garden  gate,  with  two  wash 
pitchers  full  of  cold  tea,  and  a  tray  of  sandwiches, 
giving  them  out  to  the  soldiers.  Ten  thousand 
poor  fellows  passed  her  door  that  day,  and  she  was 
enjoying  the  rdle  of  Lady  Bountiful  very  much 
indeed. 

F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack. 

LONDON,  August  22nd,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  FREDERICK, 

I  have  asked  one  or  two  of  my  friends 
to  mail  you  letters  which  may  interest  you  and 
Mary.  .  .  . 

Personal  friends  of  ours — young  girls  and  an 
older  lady — have  just  come  through  from  Germany 
with  the  greatest  difficulty.  The  young  ladies 
were  stripped  by  German  officers,  who  insulted 
them,  and  the  mother  was  put  in  prison.  They 
are  going  to  see  President  Wilson  and  make  a 
public  case  of  it.  All  that  has  happened  has  not 
even  been  told  us. 

I  had  a  letter  to-day  from  Margaret  Goblet 
d'Alviella  in  Brussels,  to  whom  I  wrote.  Felix 
is  a  Municipal  Councillor.  Far  away  as  you  are 
in  your  peaceful  and  normal  U.S.A.,  you  can't 
take  in  what  the  strain  is,  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
what  the  control  has  been  among  the  Anglo- 

29 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Saxons — and  the  Latins  too.  We  over  here  hope 
that  the  pulse  of  America  is  not  too  tightly  com- 
pressed by  the  thumbs  of  the  Wall  Street  clique. 
I  remember  that  you  told  me  some  time  ago  that 
no  one  dreams  how  America  is  influenced  by  that 
colossally  rich  Hebraic  band. 

The  Kaiser  is  a  bloodthirsty  lunatic  and  his 
whole  country  is  his  machine,  trained  to  execute 
blindly  his  commands.  Children  have  been  thrown 
on  the  flames  of  burning  houses.  Women  with 
child  have  been  slaughtered  before  the  eyes  of  the 
inhabitants.  And  these  things  come  to  us  here 
through  circumstantial  evidence  (which  of  course 
in  some  courts  is  not  accepted). 

.  .  .  Well,  if  you  live  for  money,  you  get  it ; 
and  if  you  live  for  Empire,  you  get  St.  Helena, 
and  I  hope  William  II.  will  get  it  neck  and  crop. 

I  have  finished  my  Red  Cross  examinations, 
all  but  one.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  very  interesting  here  and  very 
picturesque — troops  going  to  the  war,  and  the 
leave-takings  ;  and  if  one  can  forget  what  is 
transpiring  across  the  Channel,  there  is  a  certain 
pleasurable  excitement  in  being  on  the  spot.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  You  will  hear  enough  of  everything  that 
is  going  on,  without  my  writing  you  ;  and  please 
put  up  your  prayers  for  the  overthrow  of  the  most 
30 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

disgusting  lot  of  human  beings  that  ever  guzzled 
and  raped  and  went  through  the  world  with  sword 
and  fire.  , 


Letter  to  the  "  New  York  Sun." 

SIR, 

If  the  millions  of  Germans  in  our 
country  have  become  Americanised  and  citizens 
of  the  United  States  in  sincerity,  it  is  time  for 
them  to  adopt  and  reflect  the  attitude  of  its 
liberty-loving  and  civilised  people.  If  they  are 
not  sincere  citizens,  then  they  should  return  to 
fight  for  their  country.  They  can  only,  given  the 
fact  that  they  are  American  citizens,  loyally  echo 
the  opinions  of  the  New  York  Press  on  the  bar- 
barous methods  of  the  Kaiser's  modern  warfare. 
An  indication  of  this  modus  operandi  was  given  in 
his  orders  to  his  troops  in  China  in  1900  :  "  When 
you  meet  the  foe,  you  will  defeat  him.  No 
quarter  will  be  given,  no  prisoners  taken.  Let  all 
who  fall  into  your  hands  be  at  your  mercy.  Gain 
a  reputation  like  the  Huns  under  Attila."  There 
is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  his  point  of  view  has 
changed.  Rape,  the  murder  of  defenceless  women 
and  children,  the  levelling  of  homes,  indignities 
inflicted  not  only  upon  the  people  with  whom  he 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

is  at  war,  but  upon  citizens  of  neutral  and  sup- 
posedly friendly  countries,  have  marked  the 
passing  of  the  Kaiser's  soldiers  from  Germany 
to  the  little  city  they  have  ingloriously  over- 
whelmed. 

This  war,  from  the  beginning,  stultified  and 
astonished  the  people  of  the  twentieth  century. 
It  was  some  time  before  it  could  be  believed  ;  and 
now  the  means  of  this  warfare  must  be  abhorrent 
to  every  decent-minded  American. 

The  facts  presented  to  us,  so  close  to  the  scene 
of  war,  are  not  hearsay  evidence,  but  have  been 
brought  to  us  hi  London  by  weeping  fugitives 
and  by  those  who  have  suffered  personal  abuse, 
outrage,  and  insult.  American  women  of  the 
highest  class  have  been  stripped  and  insulted  ; 
ladies  have  been  put  hi  prison  ;  and  half  that 
has  been  endured  by  defenceless  women — British, 
French,  and  Russian  subjects — will  never  be 
known. 

This  message  is  sent  to  the  New  York  Sun  from 
an  American  citizen. 

Let  me  revert,  in  closing,  to  the  opening  of  my 
letter.  All  German-Americans  who  have  made 
their  choice  of  a  new  nationality  and  a  new 
fatherland,  should,  instead  of  endeavouring  to 
palliate  the  Kaiser's  mode  of  warfare,  denounce 
it  with  the  people  of  the  United  States. 

32 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Mrs.  John  Van  Vorst,  Paris. 

LONDON,  August  27th,  1914. 

Please  try,  before  the  Channel  is  closed,  to 
send  me  over  all  the  news  you  can.  Think  what 
it  will  be,  cut  off  from  France  !  Or  rather,  don't 
think  ;  because  what's  the  use  ? 

...  I  still  have  three  more  Red  Cross  lectures 
before  getting  the  final  certificate.  The  instruction 
has  been  extremely  interesting  and  I  have  enjoyed 
the  study.  You  would  have  laughed  at  the  little 
messenger  boys  upon  the  operating  tables,  and 
all  the  old  maids  bandaging  their  legs  and  arms. 
I  am  too  Parisian  not  to  see  the  humour  of  it. 
They  tell  me  at  the  head  office  that  England  will 
be  made  one  vast  hospital  and  that  the  Red  Cross 
has  orders  to  receive  all  the  Continental  wounded. 
Can  this  be  possible  ?  If  so,  and  I  remain  here, 
even  my  inefficiency  may  be  of  some  use.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  this  city  is  full  of  interest,  if  only 
one's  mind  could  leave  the  horrors,  and  the  strain 
could,  for  a  little  while,  be  loosened. 

As  for  the  country  about  Mother's  house,  it  is 
divine.  You  never  saw  such  fields,  and  the 
grazing  sheep,  and  the  tiny  little  town  with  its 
unbelievably  picturesque  houses ;  and  Mother 
sits  in  a  rough-and-tumble  old  garden,  which  for 

33  c 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

some  reason  or  other  is  not  even  dreary  ;  and  the 
odour  of  the  hay  and  the  fields  and  the  flocks  is 
intoxicatingly  sweet,  and  the  view  charming  ; 
and  the  afternoons  that  I  have  sat  there  .  .  .  have 
been  peculiarly  satisfying  and  peaceful.  I  have 
enjoyed  every  moment  of  them.  .  .  . 

You  can't  think  what  primitive  goings-on 
there  are  right  here  in  Mayfair,  nor  can  you  believe 
that  they  take  place  in  the  twentieth  century. 
For  instance,  the  barrel  organ,  of  course,  and  in- 
dividual women  and  men  singing  solos  of  all  kinds ; 
a  man  playing  military  tunes  on  a  pipe,  particularly 
pathetic  when  he  plays  "  The  Flowers  o'  the 
Forest  are  all  wi'ed  awa'."  And  the  other  day, 
the  oldest,  oldest-fashioned  "  Punch  and  Judy  "  ! 
It  must  have  dated  from  long  before  Dickens'  tune. 
Then  a  woman  with  a  cart  full  of  parrots  and 
birds,  and  a  monkey  and  kittens  for  sale.  And 
as  for  the  signs  on  some  of  the  buildings,  they 
cause  a  smile  even  in  these  thoughtful  days. 
"  Self-contained  maisonnette,"  for  instance — if 
you  can  tell  me  what  that  means  !  If  a  Zeppelin 
drops  a  bomb  here,  even  the  British  "maisonnette ' ' 
will  not  be  self-contained  !  Another  sign  is  a 
very  common  one  :  "  You  may  telephone  here, 
if  so  desired."  Think  of  the  politeness  of  that  to 
a  busy  public  !  Then  another :  "  Trams  stop 
here  if  requested."  And  the  names  of  some  of  the 
34 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

little  inns,  as  you  pass  them  beyond  Elstree  : 
"  The  Country  Lad,"  for  instance,  in  pink  stucco, 
one  storey  high,  with  bright  green  blinds,  and  the 
August  fields  around  it ;  and  all  along  up  the  hill, 
the  endless  files  of  dusty  soldiers  tramping  away, 
past  the  farm  lad  and  the  country  boy  and  the 
harvests.  .  .  . 

Aug.  27th,  1914. 

...  I  was  deeply  interested  in  your  views 
about  the  theatre  of  war.  I  think  that  Slav 
power  could  not  be  more  hideous  than  the  German 
power.  No  atrocities,  excepting  those  of  the 
Dark  Ages,  have  equalled  the  barbarism  of  the 
Germans  to  their  fellow-creatures.  And  I  also 
think  that  Germany  is  more  materialistic  than 
Russia,  and  that  is  the  secret  of  it  all.  .  .  . 


To  Mrs.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  New  York. 

Sept.  igth,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  MARY, 

It  is  amusing  to  read  that  the  German 
Emperor  says  that  if  the  extinction  of  the  German 
Empire  is  threatened,  he  will  arm  every  child  and 
cat  and  dog  in  the  kingdom  for  revenge.  He  has 
already,  apparently,  armed  every  maniac  and 
vandal,  every  criminal  and  drunkard,  and  set 

35 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

them  loose  upon  the  highest  civilisation  that  we 
know. 

In  the  German  appeal  for  sympathy  to  the 
United  States,  let  Germany  not  forget  the  role 
that  women  play  in  our  country.  There  is  no 
country  in  the  world  where  their  voice  is  clearer 
and  where  their  force  is  greater.  The  atrocities 
practised  upon  women  by  the  Germans  in  Belgium 
and  in  France  call  for  a  reckoning  that  Germany 
must  pay  until  its  last  breath,  and  the  women  of 
our  country  will  not  be  slow  to  display  their  atti- 
tude of  mind  towards  German  barbarism. 

France  knew  the  horrors  of  German  invasion 
in  1870,  but  hoped  for  better  things  after  the 
supposed  civilising  of  forty  years.  Yet  graver 
and  more  frightful  horrors  than  inspired  Guy  de 
Maupassant  to  write  of  Mademoiselle  Fifi  in  his 
immortal  story  have  befallen  the  women  of  France, 
as  well  as  the  women  of  Belgium. 

Germany  must  make  no  sentimental  appeal 
to  the  people  of  the  United  States.  We  are 
bidden  to  remain  neutral  by  our  Government  ; 
our  hearts  and  souls  cannot  be  this.  Before  a 
political  situation,  diplomacy  might  keep  us 
silent ;  but  before  rape  and  brutality  such  as  the 
savage  races  employed ;  before  dishonour,  arson 
and  cowardice,  before  insult  to  priests,  before 
murder  of  women,  before  fiendish  attacks  upon 

36 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

those  who  minister  to  the  sick,  we  are  neither 
neutral  nor  silent.  Nor  will  we  ever  be,  and 
Germany  may  as  well  know  it  thoroughly. 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

I  have  been  able  to  get  letters  carried  by 
hand  to  Bessie,  even  at  the  worst  moments — and 
the  moments  have  been  bad,  I  assure  you  !  At  one 
time  we  thought  hourly  that  those  dreadful  devils 
would  enter  our  beloved  Paris.  Nor  are  we  sure 
yet  that  all  is  well.  How  can  we  be  ?  .  .  . 

There  are  interesting  things  besides  the  horrors, 
of  course,  and  here  in  England  we  have  only 
seen  that  side.  London  has  been  calm  and 
peaceful,  except  for  the  exodus  of  her  soldiers  ; 
and  the  weather,  with  the  exception  of  one  day, 
has  been  divine,  so  that  it  is  hard  to  realise  all  that 
is  going  on  about  us. 

You  must  not  think  of  me  as  nursing  wounded 
soldiers,  for  I  have  done  nothing  at  all  but  hang 
around  in  a  state  of  horrible  desuetude,  wishing 
myself  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  and  failing 
probably  to  appreciate  just  how  thrilling  it  is  on 
Piccadilly.  I  believe  I  have  now  secured  at  least 
the  first  diploma  of  the  Red  Cross.  .  .  . 

37 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Just  now  we  are  waiting  for  the  outcome  of  the 
battle  of  the  Aisne  and  our  hearts  are  filled  with 
loathing  of  Germany's  horrible  atrocities ;  and 
we  hope,  with  all  our  hearts,  that  she  will  be 
crushed  into  the  most  abject  submission.  Don't 
let  us  hear  of  any  peace  overtures  from  America, 
please.  As  Richard  Harding  Davis  said  when 
President  Wilson  suggested  neutrality:  "  He  hasn't 
seen  this  war." 


To  Victor  Morawetz,  Esq. 

LONDON,  Sept.  3rd,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  VICTOR, 

...  I  have  been  wandering  through 
the  streets  of  London  all  alone,  watching  the 
movements  and  the  character  of  this  great  city 
at  this  particular  time  of  its  history.  Indeed  you 
are  right  when  you  speak  of  the  intense  moment 
and  its  great  importance.  One  can't  be  every- 
where at  once,  and  if  France  is  horrible  and 
quivering  with  interest,  London  is  certainly  throb- 
bing with  the  same  issues  too.  Its  pulse  is  slow, 
but  it  is  rising  rapidly,  and  I  think  that  by  the 
time  you  have  this  letter  it  will  have  awakened 
more  completely  than  the  people  themselves 
dream.  It  has  been  like  watching  a  rising  tide 
all  these  weeks.  One  of  the  most  interesting 

38 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

phases  of  it  all  has  been  the  welding  together  and 
the  blending  of  party  and  the  annihilation  of 
personal  interest  in  the  one  great  Cause. 

I  have  been  thinking,  too — no  doubt  you  have 
thought  the  same — that  none  of  us  have  compre- 
hended war  at  all.  The  Germans  alone  seem  to 
have  understood  it.  War  is  so  essentially  brutal 
that  you  can't  combine  it  with  reason  or  civilisa- 
tion. Why  make  civilised  war  ?  It  is  uncivilised, 
and  if  you're  going  to  make  it  at  all,  you  may  just 
as  well  do  it  to  the  limit.  At  any  rate,  this 
experience  will  prove  whether  there  can  be  such  a 
thing  as  "  civilised  warfare."  If  the  Germans 
conquer,  then  to  rush  on  like  the  Huns  is  certainly 
the  way  to  fight ;  if  they  don't,  we  shall  all 
probably  decide  to  disarm.  They  have  cut  off 
the  sword  hands  of  the  little  children,  so  that  they 
may  not  bear  arms  against  them  in  the  future. 

It  is  soul-stirring  indeed  to  be  amongst  these 
nations  struggling  for  existence  ;  but  I  assure  you 
that  if  it's  not  your  own  people,  and  you  can't 
take  an  active  interest  in  what  they  are  doing,  it 
is  real  suffering  to  be  useless,  and  the  strain  is 
great.  For  instance,  I  have  worked  for  the  Red 
Cross  examinations,  and  now  find  that  I  can't  be 
a  British  Red  Crossist  and  must  form  part  of  a 
foreign  legion  if  I  want  to  be  one  at  all. 

You  must  think  my  ideas  ridiculous,  but  still 
39 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  like  to  air  them  to  you.  If  France  is  unsuccess- 
ful, don't  you  think  it  will  prove  that  a  republic 
surrounded  by  these  powerful  autocratic  monarchies 
is  not  equal  to  coping  with  a  martial  situation  ? 
If  Germany  conquers,  the  march  of  civilisation 
will  be  retarded  by  many  years — if  anything  can 
retard  the  march  of  civilisation. 

It  is  strange  to  think  that  when  you  get  this 
letter  the  fate  of  France  will  probably  be  decided 
— certainly  the  fate  of  Paris.  I  can  no  longer 
think  of  the  personal  equation  in  it,  when  I  think 
of  the  dreadful  human  sacrifice  going  on  so  near. 

Alice  Carr  Ellison  told  me  just  now  of  a  friend  of 
hers  to  whom  the  War  Office  sent  news.  To  the 
officer  who  came  and  told  her  she  said  :  "Is  my 
husband  badly  wounded  ?  "  And  he  said  :  "  He's 
dead. ' '  And  she  said,  without  showing  the  slightest 
emotion :  "  Thank  God  he's  not  among  the 
missing  !  "  That's  the  way  she  bore  it ;  for  to 
be  among  the  "  missing  "  now  is  like  being  among 
the  savages. 

I  saw  an  Englishwoman  to-day  who  had 
escaped  from  a  German  prison.  She  said  that 
the  German  officers  trod  upon  the  people.  They 
seem  to  have  gone  blood-mad.  I  suppose  there 
is  such  a  disease. 

And  yet,  out  of  it  all,  I  know  there  will  rise 
some  great  spiritual  conquest  and  good ;  and 

40 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

everything  will,  out  of  this  baptism  of  fire  and 
blood,  come  purified.  But  the  horror  of  the 
cauldron  !  .  .  . 

A  friend  of  Marie  Edgar's  in  the  Hussars 
wrote  her  yesterday  that  he  was  in  the  Charleroi 
engagement,  and  walked  ankle-deep  in  blood ; 
and  the  poor  foreign  legion  from  Africa  was  half 
exterminated. 

I  have  taken  a  house  for  mother  on  the 
Edgware  road,  about  six  miles  from  London,  and 
shall  stay  there  till  October,  if  I  can.  At  least 
mother  will,  and  if  we  are  threatened  with  disaster 
such  as  is  menacing  France,  why  then  I  suppose 
I'll  have  to  bring  her  to  America. 

You  can't  think  how  splendid  Mr.  Herrick  has 
been.  Really,  I  hope  they'll  make  him  President. 

As   ever, 

M.  V. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz. 

LONDON,  Sept.  8th,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

For  the  past  few  days  there  has  been 
no  violent  engagement,  and  we  have  been  able 
to  draw  a  breath ;  but  it  does  not  mean  that  we 
are  watching  any  less  keenly  or  praying  any  the 
less  fervently. 

The   recruiting  goes  on  beautifully  and   the 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

spirit  of  voluntary  enlistment  is  very  fine  and 
must  be  highly  gratifying. 

You  asked  me  to  write  you  about  the  state 
of  affairs  ;  but  you  see,  one  realises  that  in  the 
ten  days  it  takes  to  get  a  letter,  the  face  of  events 
must  have  changed  enormously. 

Elizabeth  Grimm  writes  me:  "Leave  London 
immediately :  Germany  has  terrible  surprises  in 
store  for  you.  Eighty  Zeppelins  are  going  to 
fly  over  England  and  France ;  and  you  must 
take  mother  to  Rotterdam,  where  I  will  spend 
the  winter  with  her."  Poor  mother  !  Any  further 
flight  must  be  to  America — nowhere  else. 

After  passing  five  weeks  in  Red  Cross  study 
and  lectures  and  examinations,  we  were  informed 
the  other  day  very  curtly,  that  no  foreigners 
would  be  allowed  to  become  members  of  the 
British  Red  Cross.  It  was  a  bitter  moment 
and  I  felt  bitterly.  A  fine-looking  Frenchwoman, 
who  has  been  scrubbing  the  floors  of  the  hospitals 
and  so  forth,  in  addition  to  the  Red  Cross  work, 
has  been  asked  to  form  a  foreign  legion,  taking 
in  the  unwelcome  French,  Belgians,  etc.  To-day 
I  sold  my  uniform,  bought  with  such  excitement 
and  interest.  The  Foreign  Legion  will  have  the 
smartest  uniform  you  ever  saw. 

I  have  just  come  in  from  a  rifle  brigade  practice. 
It  is  really  most  gratifying  to  see  the  women's 

42 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

enthusiasm  here.  To-day  we  were  drilled  by  an 
officer  from  the  Coldstream  Guards.  It  certainly 
passes  some  of  the  time  most  agreeably,  even  if  one 
is  tired. 

Yesterday  I  went  down  for  the  arrival  of  the 
Ostend  tram,  to  help  the  Belgian  refugees  from 
Malines  and  Louvain.  One  poor  little  woman 
arrived  from  Malines  with  her  husband  and  her 
old  uncle.  "  It  is  exterminated,"  she  said  to  me  ; 
"  we  have  nothing  in  the  world  but  what  we  hold 
in  our  hands." 

I  went  to  see  Arnold  Bennett's  play  "  The 
Great  Adventure."  I  sat  in  the  pit,  and  only  the 
pit  was  occupied.  It  was  one  of  those  nervous 
nights  when  at  every  corner  some  new  poster  sent 
absolute  horror  to  one's  soul.  And  now,  as  I 
write,  how-  little  we  know  what  the  issue  may  be  ! 
Think  what  the  devastation  is  at  best  in  our  fair 
French  fields  !  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  ... 

Two  friends  of  Mollie  Andrews  asked  me  to  go 
out  with  them  in  a  motor,  and  we  lunched  at  Tun- 
bridge  Wells,  getting  back  here  at  four  o'clock.  It 
was  a  divine  and  marvellous  September  day,  and  the 
air  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good.  Then  I  took  my 
own  taxi  and  motored  out  to  dinner  with  Bridget 
Guinness  at  Windsor  and  spent  a  most  delightful 
evening.  Mr.  Guinness  mapped  out  the  whole 
campaign  on  the  floor  with  cards,  and  we  raved 

43 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  raged  together,  and  it  was  greatly  satisfying. 
Mr.  G.  said  it  was  a  privilege  to  live  in  these  times. 
It  is  a  frightful  privilege  to  be  here  !  The  excite- 
ment and  the  suffering,  the  hope  deferred  and 
the  faith  it  requires  ;  in  the  case  of  many,  the 
bitter  sacrifice,  the  unending  agony.  Just  think 
what  it  means  !  I  read  to-day  of  a  woman  who 
had  four  sons  at  the  front,  and  of  another  who 
had  lost  her  only  son.  Of  course  there  are  many 
like  that.  Women  have  been  married  on  Monday 
and  their  husbands  have  left  them  the  following 
day,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  they  have  had 
telegrams  from  the  War  Office  to  tell  them  that 
they  will  never  see  again  these  men  who  have  so 
gallantly  gone  to  stand  for  France  and  Belgium 
— for  that's  what  it  means.  England  could  have 
remained  neutral,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that 
eternal  bond  of  brotherhood  which,  when  it  is 
felt,  is  the  strongest  thing  on  earth  and  the 
safeguard  of  nation  and  home. 

I  hear  that  Kitchener  went  to  France  for 
forty-eight  hours.  He  drove  in  a  motor  as  far 
along  the  French  front  as  he  could  in  that  time, 
and  during  his  stay  there  he  organised  the  new 
military  government  of  Paris,  changed  the  old 
and  sent  the  authorities  to  Bordeaux  ;  but  that's 
not  official,  so  don't  tell  it  all  over  the  place  and 
get  me  in  for  something  or  other  ! 

44 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Maeterlinck  is  taboo  now  in  Germany.  Car- 
pentier,  the  prize  fighter,  has  given  up  contracts 
here  amounting  to  thousands  of  pounds  a  week 
to  go  and  fight  for  France ;  Marcoux,  with  his 
American  contracts  all  bust  to  flinders,  has  taken 
his  divine  voice  into  the  ranks  to  sing  the 
"  Marseillaise  "  ;  and  Mordkin  and  Rachmaninoff 
are  shouldering  Russian  weapons.  Art  and 
Science  and  Letters  are  all  combining,  filling 
these  bloody  fields  with  immortal  sacrifices — oh, 
how  thrilling  it  is  !  Yes,  it's  a  thrilling  time — a 
terrible  time ;  but  there  is  a  sublimity  in  it  of  which 
our  children  will  reap  the  glories.  Cyril  Maude 
is  a  special  constable,  and  when  the  theatre  is 
over  "  Grumpy  "  patrols  the  reservoirs,  to  prevent 
German  spies  from  poisoning  the  water  of  London. 
Quelles  belles  choses  ! 

I  really  think  that  I  came  very  near  having 
brain  fever.  I  went  through  the  worst  horrors, 
in  imagination,  thinking  of  Paris,  and  Bessie,  and 
the  wreck  and  destruction.  Just  now  it's  hold- 
ing one's  breath,  and  in  this  moment  of  waiting, 
I  close,  dearest  Violet,  with  the  most  devoted 
love. 

M. 


45 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Victor  Momwetz,  Esq. 

LONDON,  September  gth,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  VICTOR, 

I  am  extremely  touched  by  your  ex- 
pressions of  interest  and  sympathy,  and  I  can  so 
easily  see  you  here,  agitating  for  others  and  work- 
ing for  any  cause  in  which  you  put  your  talent 
and  your  magnetism  and  your  interest.  Indeed, 
I  am  sure  that  if  you  were  here,  you  would  be 
fighting  for  France.  .  .  . 

They  will  not  have  me  on  the  British  Red 
Cross  because  I  am  an  American  and  "neutral." 
I  am  sure  you  appreciate  this  disappointment. 
Still,  I  have  two  certificates  to-day,  having  passed 
two  examinations.  There  is  another  to-morrow, 
and  I  hope  then  to  get  the  Red  Cross  certificate, 
though  I  can't  be,  as  they  say,  "  on  the  strength." 

When  you  receive  this,  we  shall  all  of  us  know 
what  the  Allies  have  been  able  to  do.  From  the 
very  best  authority  here  I  have  it  that  four 
French  Generals  were  shot  for  treachery  at 
Namur.  Fancy  what  it  would  have  been  if 
England  had  not  gone  to  the  rescue  !  Is  it  not 
picturesque — that  response  of  the  British  armies 
of  India  and  Canada,  of  the  farmer  boys  from  the 
cold  North  and  the  Indians,  who  are  bringing 
their  beautiful  mounts  with  them  ?  Wouldn't 

46 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

you  love  to  see  that  battlefield — since  one  there 
must  be — or,  if  not  the  battlefield,  the  assembly  ? 

There  has  not  been,  since  I  came  to  England, 
one  note  of  doubt  as  to  the  righteousness  of  the 
Cause. 

One  of  Wanamaker's  managers,  Mr.  Helmer, 
has  just  come  through  from  Paris.  He  and  a  few 
others  chartered  a  boat  and  came  by  the  Seine  to 
Rouen,  their  passage  costing  them  fifty  dollars 
apiece  and  their  individual  fees  mounting  to  sixty 
dollars  between  Paris  and  Rouen.  There  their 
boat  was  taken  away  from  them,  mines  being  laid 
in  the  Seine  and  the  bridges  blown  up.  At  Rouen, 
where  they  hoped  to  pass  the  night,  they  were 
told  that  the  Germans  might  arrive  any  moment, 
and  they  toiled  painfully  on  to  Havre,  where 
Mr.  H.  told  me  pandemonium  reigned  supreme. 
Thousands  of  American  and  English  refugees 
were  thronging  the  streets  and  the  hotels,  and 
the  little  steamer,  supposed  to  accommodate  five 
hundred  people  at  the  most,  carried  fifteen  hundred 
over,  crowded  like  sardines,  and  their  baggage 
was  left  standing  in  the  streets  of  Havre.  Think 
of  it !  He  is  a  very  quiet,  unimpressionable 
American  business  man,  but  I  have  seen  no  one 
more  impressed  and  overwhelmed  by  the  situation 
than  he.  I  am  a  radiant  optimist  compared  with 
him.  He  doesn't  think  it  a  possible  thing  for 

47 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  Germans  to  be  conquered  in  France.  He  is 
anxious  to  return  to  Paris  and  do  what  he  can  for 
the  people  there.  He  gave  me  a  picture  of  the 
deserted  streets,  of  the  closed  hotels  and  shops, 
and  congratulated  me  very  warmly  on  the  fact 
that  I  was  not  there  and  had  made  such  an  easy 
exit.  It  took  one  of  the  Daily  Mail  correspon- 
dents fifty  hours  to  get  from  London  to  Paris. 
The  risks  of  being  confined  there  hermetically 
sealed,  have  been  what  has  kept  me  from  going 
back  now — purely  on  account  of  mother ;  but  it 
is  hard  to  remain  here,  as  you  can  imagine.  .  .  . 

I  know  you  will  be  pleased  at  the  notice  in 
Punch  of  my  book.  Not  much,  perhaps,  but  it 
is  a  great  honour  to  be  spoken  of  in  that  paper, 
it  seems.  .  .  . 

Four  British  Army  nurses  have  been  brought 
home  shot. 

No  more  for  the  present. 

As  ever, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz. 

LONDON,  Sept.  i2th,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

...  I  just  want  you  to  note  what 
trouble  I  have  taken  to  get  letters  to  you  and  to 
others  during  this  time,  when  people  are  left 

48 


PORTRAIT    OK    MKS.   VICTOR    MOKAV.E 

From  fainting- by  Mrs.  Albert  Ilerter 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

without  news.  I  sent  you  letters  by  hand  by 
three  different  people  who  were  going  over,  and 
some  gloves  by  a  fourth  person.  I  have  sent 
Bessie  letters  by  Richard  Harding  Davis,  and 
it  was  amusing  to  see  him  pack  them  away  in  his 
bag  with  his  passports  and  letters  of  introduction. 
And  I  have  sent  them  over  and  over  again  by  a 
courier.  I  only  mention  this  to  show  what  can 
be  done  if  one  cares.  .  .  . 

Mother  moves  into  her  other  house  on  Tuesday, 
and  I  give  up  my  rooms  here.  I  have  not  yet 
decided  whether  I  shall  go  out  to  Edgware  and 
remain  there  with  mother  for  a  month,  or  whether 
I  shall  start  away  next  week  to  see  Bessie  and 
Mme.  de  Sers.  After  all,  it  doesn't  make  much 
difference  now,  does  it  ?  as  the  Germans  have 
not  quite  ruined  France,  and  the  Allies  are 
successful.  That's  all  that  counts. 

To-night  the  searchlights  are  being  flashed 
from  the  London  buildings,  ready  for  the  Zep- 
pelins if  they  come ;  but  nobody  seems  to  be 
afraid  of  them  any  more. 

I  passed  the  third  Red  Cross  examination 
yesterday.  I  look  upon  it  now  as  only  an  added 
bit  of  knowledge,  because  we  shall  not  be  used  ; 
but  I  have  enjoyed  it. 

Somehow,  nothing  seems  the  same  any  more, 
although  I  think  that  things  will  adjust  themselves 

49  D 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

all  over  this  great  troubled  land  ;  because  it  seems 
as  though  a  spirit  was  moving  over  everything 
that  perhaps  has  never  been  there  before.  Eng- 
land was  said  to  be  degenerate.  Surely,  if  there 
has  been  any  degeneracy,  an  almighty  upward 
movement  has  been  brought  about  by  this  crisis. 
What  a  power  she  has  been  throughout  her 
Empire !  We  speak  of  the  German  system : 
What  is  it  ?  Within  the  confines  of  a  single 
country,  a  forced,  autocratic  materialism.  Where- 
as, as  you  see,  this  wide  response  of  the  British 
Empire  from  shore  to  shore,  from  these  princes  of 
— let  us  not  say  a  conquered  people, — from  subject 
races,  from  colony  and  island,  this  mighty  answer, 
this  evidence  of  affection,  this  consolidation  with- 
out compulsion,  why,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is 
one  of  the  finest  things  in  history ;  not  to  speak 
of  the  voluntary  enlistment  of  what  will  be  a 
million  men  !  .  .  .  I  believe  that  it  all  comes 
from  a  certain  idealism ;  also  from  the  fact  that 
if  the  proper  Cause  is  present,  the  men  and  the 
means  are  there  too.  .  .  . 

Madelon  Hancock  is  determined  to  go  to 
Antwerp — alone,  by  herself.  .  .  .  She  has  bought 
a  nurse's  costume,  but  what  she  will  do  in  Antwerp, 
or  how  long  she  will  be  permitted  to  stay,  I  don't 
know.  .  .  .  Devotedly, 

M. 
50 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Mrs.  John  Van  Vorst,  Paris. 

LONDON,  Sept,  I2th,  1914. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

It  is  a  great  comfort  to  be  able  to  send 
in  this  manner,  and  if  you  will  have  a  letter  ready 
for  this  man,  he  will  bring  it  back  to  me.  .  .  . 

The  news  is  so  glorious  that  we  no  longer  have 
any  fear.  Of  course  you  hear  of  the  French,  and 
we  hear  this  marvellous  English  news  of  staunch 
and  brilliant  action ;  and  I  assure  you  that  it's 
thrilling  beyond  words. 

It  is  interesting  in  every  way  to  be  here — to 
see  the  unparalleled  unity  of  this  nation.  What 
an  Empire,  isn't  it  ?  From  shore  to  shore, 
what  loyalty  !  Think  !  Five  hundred  thousand 
volunteers  in  a  month — and  all  so  willing  to  go  ! 
What  a  lesson  to  militarism,  and  how  uplifting  ! 
No  wonder  they  fight ! 

I  hope  you  have  received  the  papers  that  give 
you  a  picture  of  the  Indian  and  Canadian  response. 
Really  it's  picturesque,  isn't  it  ?  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  interested  in  the  enclosed  clippings. 

I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  see  you  before  very 
long.  I  think  your  courage  has  been  superb 
and  it  must  give  you  great  satisfaction.  .  .  . 

Devotedly  yours, 

M. 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Mr.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  New  York. 

LONDON,  Sept.  22nd,  19*4- 

DEAR  FREDERICK, 

.  .  .  We  are  not  exciting  enough,  here 
in  England,  to  be  in  danger,  unless  a  possible 
visit  of  a  Zeppelin  may  be  called  so ;  but  we  are 
certainly  palpitating  with  interest,  extremely 
picturesque,  and  if  one  may  judge  of  what  is 
going  on  across  the  Channel,  in  the  deeds  of  those 
magnificent  bulldog  regiments,  we  are  superb 
and  brave.  I  don't  suppose  in  the  annals  of 
war  anything  has  been  more  surprising  than  the 
vigour  and  the  dogged  continuance  of  this  repulse. 
When  you  think  that  men  have  now,  as  I  write, 
been  fighting  for  ten  days,  one  might  almost  say 
without  respite,  wearing,  many  of  them,  the  same 
clothes  in  which  they  left  England,  without  daring 
to  take  off  their  boots  lest  then-  poor  feet  should 
swell  so  that  they  couldn't  put  them  on  again,  one 
can  j  udge  a  little  of  the  hardships  of  this  modern  war. 

The  scenes  here  are  delightful  and  pathetic  as 
well.  You  can't  believe  that,  in  the  twentieth 
century,  anything  so  amusing  as  this  Highland 
costume  could  still  exist,  yet  officers  with  bare 
knees  and  checkered  stockings  stand  before  the 
fireplace  in  hotels,  smoking  and  talking  as  serenely 
as  though,  within  thirty-six  hours,  they  might  not 

52 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

be  leading  one  of  those  mad  charges  up  a  French 
hill.  They  are  fighting  in  trenches  up  to  their 
waists  in  water  now,  and  think  what  the  fields 
around  Paris  must  be !  Those  days  when  the 
Germans  were  within  a  few  miles  of  the  gates 
made  one's  heart  sick,  and  even  now  we  are  not 
sure  that  they  may  not  have  another  try,  although 
it  is  not  likely. 

Journeys  at  this  time  are  long  and  eventful. 
A  correspondent  of  the  Daily  Mail  travelled  with 
a  Turco  whose  trousers  were  all  dripping  with 
blood.  "  Are  you  badly  hurt  ?  "  the  Daily  Mail 
man  asked  sympathetically ;  and  the  grinning 
nigger  said  :  "  Oh,  no  !  Take  this  back  to  Africa," 
and  he  pulled  out  of  his  baggy  trousers  the  dripping 
head  of  a  German.  Imagine  the  sensation  in  the 
railway  train  !  An  editor  of  the  Daily  Mail  told 
me  this  himself  at  lunch  the  other  day.  .  .  .  The 
trains,  it  seems,  are  full  of  vermin  and  the  seats 
covered  with  filth  and  blood.  They  can't  clean 
them  out  properly.  And  they  say  that  overland 
travel  from  Paris  southwards  is  full  of  disturbing 
and  wearying  adventures. 

In  Clarges  Street,  where  I  have  been  staying, 
much  that  is  picturesque  passes  by  the  front 
door.  An  old  man  plays  on  a  harp  the  songs 
that  the  boys  are  singing  on  the  battlefield ; 
and  there  is  a  most  pathetic  little  Punch  and 

53 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Judy  man  with  a  dog  whose  attractiveness  would 
touch  your  heart.  You  can  be  sure  that  he  does 
not  go  by  without  a  reward. 

.  .  .  They  say  that  the  military  Red  Cross 
nurses  are  swishing  around  in  great  style  in 
Paris,  and  that  every  one  is  mad  to  be  a  nurse  ! 

It  is  hard  to  realise  in  this  quiet  England, 
serene  in  these  September  days,  that  the  death 
struggle  and  the  dreadful  grip  of  war  is  going 
on  only  a  few  miles  away,  with  such  tremendous 
issues  at  stake.  .  .  . 

What  do  you  think  of  the  destruction  of  beau- 
tiful Rheims,  where  Jeanne  d'Arc  saw  the  king 
crowned  ?  Mutable  and  immutable  !  And  one 
asks  one's  self  over  and  over  again  :  "  What  lasts  ?  " 
What  indeed  ?  And  far  up  in  Lorraine  and  Alsace 
they  will  answer  :  "  Qui  vive  ?  La  France  quand- 
m£me !  "  And  perhaps  there  are  certain  things 
that  because  of  an  inherent  love  and  loyalty,  in 
spite  of  disaster  and  far-flung  battle  lines  and 
constant  change,  persist — quand-meme.  ,  .  . 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

EDGWARE,  Sept.  28th,  1914. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

...  I  came  down  this  morning  in  the 
train  from  Windsor  with  a  young  officer,  not  more 

54 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

than  twenty-two  years  of  age — one  of  the  most 
attractive-looking  young  men  I  ever  saw — such 
a  clean,  fine  face.  He  had  just  come  back  from 
the  battle  of  the  Aisne,  where  he  was  wounded. 
His  arm  was  all  done  up  in  a  big  silk  St.  John's 
bandage.  He  said  that  he  had  been  fighting  for 
three  weeks  and  had  not  had  his  clothes  off  once 
in  that  time,  nor  his  boots,  and  that  he  had  only 
once  during  that  time  seen  the  enemy.  I  am 
going  to  give  you  all  this  information  en  bloc, 
while  I  can  remember  what  he  said.  It  is  the 
first  personal  note  I  have  had  of  this  vast,  horrible 
war.  ...  He  said  that  the  German  organisation 
is  beyond  words  superb,  and  that  there  never  was 
such  an  army  to  meet,  and  that  it  is  extraordinary 
that  both  the  Allies  and  English  have  been  able 
to  stand  up  against  it  at  all.  He  said  that  the 
German  officer  proper,  of  the  best  regiments,  is 
courteous  and  considerate,  and  that  when  you 
realise  that  they  have  four  or  five  million  men 
all  war-mad,  to  deal  with,  their  job  is  not  easy. 
He  said  they  lay  twenty-four  hours  in  the  trenches, 
in  the  wet  and  cold,  soaked  through,  and  that  all 
the  weaklings  of  his  regiment  were  killed,  for 
those  that  were  not  shot  died  from  exhaustion 
and  pneumonia.  There  were  twenty-six  officers 
in  his  regiment  and  only  six  came  out  alive.  He 
was  one  of  this  little  number.  He  had  no  idea 

55 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

that  he  would  ever  see  England  again.  His 
school  pal,  and  an  officer  like  himself,  was  by  his 
side  all  through  the  engagement,  and  he  turned 
to  this  boy  and  said  :  "  Won't  we  have  a  jolly 
time  when  we  get  back  to  England  ?  "  And  just 
at  that  moment  he  was  shot  through  the  heart. 
This  boy  buried  him  after  the  battle,  digging  his 
grave  and  taking  his  cigarette  case  and  things 
from  his  pocket.  He  said  he  would  otherwise 
have  been  left  there  on  that  field,  unburied,  as 
they  had  no  time  even  to  drag  out  the  wounded. 
He  was  finally  hit  by  a  shell — shoulder  broken — 
then  lay  for  thirty-six  hours  in  a  base  hospital  in 
a  little  French  town,  where  the  care  was  not  very 
good.  He  said  the  whole  town  around  them  was 
reduced  to  powder  and  ashes,  but  the  hospital 
was  spared ;  and  that  night  they  all  escaped  in 
Red  Cross  waggons,  the  searchlights  of  the  enemy 
following  them  like  the  eyes  of  demons  and  shining 
upon  their  faces  even  at  a  distance  of  four  miles. 
But  the  Germans  did  not  shell  the  hospital 
waggons.  He  was  piled  in  a  cattle  truck  with 
other  wounded  men  and  made  the  return  journey 
to  England  in  that  way  as  far  as  the  Channel  boat. 
Several  of  his  personal  friends  died  on  that 
dreadful  trip. 

When  you  see  the  flower  of  England  sacrificed 
like  this,  it  seems  too  bad,  doesn't  it  ?     And  all 

56 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

for  what  ?  He  said  that  he  thought  they 
wouldn't  get  the  Germans  out  of  France  before 
Christmas. 

My  cousins  in  Brussels  are  cut  off  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  world.  My  cousin  writes  me  that 
his  wife  is  more  distant  from  him  than  if  she 
were  in  Calcutta  or  New  York,  although  he  can 
see  Brussels  from  the  forts  of  Antwerp.  He  is 
there  with  the  King,  and  she  is  doing  ambulance 
work  in  her  own  city.  Brave,  isn't  it — wonder- 
fully brave  ? 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  arms  of  light  that 
flash  across  these  skies  here  at  night  now — great 
long  fans  of  radiance,  searching  for  Zeppelins, 
though  what  they'd  do  when  they  found  them, 
God  knows  ! 

We  hear  that  Kreisler  is  wounded.  No  one 
is  spared. 

To  Mrs.  Momwetz. 

PARIS,  Oct.  3rd,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

I  left  London  on  a  divinely  beautiful 
day,  cloudless  and  balmy.  The  train  and  boat 
from  England  were  crowded  with  people  who  were 
venturing  like  timid  rats  out  of  their  holes  back, 
as  they  hoped,  to  a  secure  city.  The  Channel 
crossing  took  six  hours  and  was  very  good.  As  I 

57 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

had  on  my  uniform  I  passed  in  pounds  and  pounds 
of  tea  and  cigarettes  for  the  British  wounded, 
friends  of  English  friends.  There  was  a  big 
contingent  of  Red  Cross  nurses  on  the  boat,  going 
to  Limoges,  and  I  gave  the  Chief  a  letter  to  the 
dear  Havilands.  Every  one  talked  to  every  one 
else  with  the  most  good-natured  friendliness. 

The  late  September  sunlight  was  red  around 
the  shores  of  old  Dieppe  as  we  drew  in.  I  do 
not  know  quite  what  changed  aspect  I  had  looked 
for,  but  there  was  no  change.  France  is  always 
beautiful  and  seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever 
now.  The  men  who  had  not  gone  to  the  war  were 
younger  and  more  sturdy  than  we  had  expected 
to  see. 

As  soon  as  we  pulled  into  the  first  station, 
seven  wounded  soldiers  were  hurried  in  and  took 
their  places  in  a  vacant  compartment  next  to  us, 
shared  with  them  by  the  head  woman  from  Worth's 
and  a  pretty  little  fitter.  Picture  the  colour 
of  this — the  men  in  their  dirty  red  and  blue 
uniforms,  and  the  pimpante  little  dressmakers 
sharing  their  luncheon  with  their  wounded  brothers 
and  chattering  with  them  like  devoted,  gay  little 
birds. 

The  men  were  talkative,  and  told  of  the  days 
and  nights  in  the  trenches,  and  the  history  of  their 
wounds,  as  they  will  tell  their  brave  stories  until 

58 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

they  are  old  men.  One  had  had  his  eye  shot 
out — such  a  delicate-looking  young  fellow ; 
another's  wound  was  in  his  back,  and  there  were 
three  holes  in  his  coat  where  the  bullets  had  only 
grazed  him. 

One  young  man  said  that  as  his  companions 
and  he  lay  under  cover  their  hiding  place  was 
betrayed  by  a  seventeen-year-old  French  girl 
in  the  neighbouring  village.  The  Prussians 
menaced  her  with  death,  and  to  save  her  life  she 
sold  her  people.  When  you  think  what  they  have 
done  to  the  women  and  children,  it  is  hard  to 
judge  her.  Fortunately,  this  special  little  band 
was  able  to  cope  with  its  pursuers. 

On  the  Channel  boat  there  was  an  American 
woman  who  had  come  from  Dinant,  where  she 
had  seen  the  arrival  of  countless  refugees  from 
Belgium  who  had  walked  to  Dinant  on  foot ;  so 
these  incidents  come  from  her  who  saw  the  people, 
to  me,  who  repeat  them  to  you. 

She  saw  four  or  five  little  boys  with  their 
hands  cut  off  at  the  wrist  by  the  Prussian  soldiers. 
She  saw  a  woman  who  had  lost  her  mind  because 
her  sister  and  her  sister's  children  had  been  put 
to  death  by  the  sword  before,  her  very  eyes  in  the 
little  inn  where  the  woman  had  given  the  soldiers 
nourishment  and  lodgings. 

But  I  am  sure  that  you  have  heard  enough  of 
59 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

these  never-ending  atrocities — France  is  full  of 
them  and  Belgium  encore  ! 

There  was  nobody  to  meet  me  at  the  station 
when  I  arrived  in  Paris,  and  the  desolation  of 
Paris  soon  began  to  assert  itself.  The  streets 
were  scarcely  lit  anywhere.  However,  nothing 
could  spoil  the  return.  The  weather  being  mild, 
the  apartment  was  comfortable,  and  in  a  few 
moments  everything  necessary  was  put  in  order 
and  after  the  London  lodgings  and  the  exile,  the 
sweetness  of  it  was  beyond  any  words  to  express — 
alone  as  I  was.  It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true, 
that  this  beloved  little  place  had  really  been 
spared  to  me  a  little  longer. 

Below  in  the  concierge's  lodge,  huddled  in  a 
chair,  sat  the  lodger  over  me — a  little  old  gentle- 
man who  lives  quietly  here  and  whom  nothing 
would  induce  to  leave  Paris.  He  had  had  his  in- 
structions from  the  proprietor  to  cover  the  roof 
of  the  apartment  with  heavy  water-soaked 
mattresses  in  case  of  bombs,  and  he  had  taken  all 
his  most  precious  possessions  downstairs  on  the 
first  floor.  It  seems  that  the  taubes  flew  low 
and  circled  for  days  over  the  Chambre  des  Deputes 
and  this  little  place,  and  God  knows  why  they 
did  not  drop  their  fiendish  loads.  Only  two  days 
before  a  bomb  had  fallen  in  the  Rue  de  1'Universite, 
the  street  next  to  mine. 

60 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

The  following  morning  I  went  to  the  office  of 
the  Matin  and  learned  that  young  Robert  Le 
Roux  had  been  shot  at  Toul  in  a  recent  engage- 
ment, and  that  the  news  was  just  as  bad  as  it 
could  be. 

The  following  day,  as  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  to  do  here,  and  I  felt  more  than  anxious 
to  put  into  practice  some  of  my  new-found  skill, 
I  went  to  the  American  Ambulance  at  Neuilly. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  this  picture,  could 
touch  the  excitement  and  the  vividness  of  life 
that  come  at  such  a  time  as  this.  In  June 
mother  and  I  drove  past  a  beautiful-looking  new 
building  in  the  style  of  Francois  Premier,  and 
wondered  what  it  was  ;  if  we  could  only  have 
seen  just  then  the  picture  I  was  to  see  next  time 
I  approached  that  building.  It  was  the  Pasteur 
Institute,  incomplete,  and  now  so  replete.  Paris 
has  given  it  over  to  Mrs.  Vanderbilt,  and  before 
each  window  hang  the  luminous  dark  blue  curtains 
to  shade  the  light  from  the  invalided  eyes. 

In  front  of  the  place  was  a  constant  va-et-vient 
of  Red  Cross  motor  ambulances.  As  I  went  in 
two  of  these  were  arriving  from  the  trams,  and 
I  saw  five  blue-coated,  red-trousered  soldiers 
carried  in. 

The  corridors  are  full  of  the  house  surgeons 
and  orderlies — men  who  have  volunteered  their 

61 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

services,  mostly  American,  some  English.  There 
were  artists  from  the  Latin  Quarter  and  young 
clerks  from  the  shops,  all  busy  in  the  sendee  of 
this  country  which  has  given  its  treasures  to  us  all 
for  so  many  years. 

I  saw  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  shortly  after,  and  offered 
my  services,  which  she  was  so  good  as  to  accept 
immediately.  I  also  promised  to  bring  her  Miss 
Arkwright,  who  is  to  arrive  to-day  from  London, 
and  Glory  Hancock  for  whom  I  have  telegraphed 
to  Antwerp. 

In  one  of  the  big  rooms  where  I  worked  yester- 
day some  fifty  women  are  engaged  preparing  the 
bandages.  That  sounds  like  nothing,  does  it 
not  ?  It  is  one  of  the  most  important  things  in 
the  hospital,  and  a  never-ceasing  occupation.  I 
wish  you  could  see  that  room.  The  workers  are 
ladies  almost  all  of  them,  and  many  of  them  are 
strikingly  beautiful,  with  that  distinction  and 
grace  that  the  American  woman  possesses  to  such 
a  marked  extent.  There  has  been  no  effort 
at  putting  them  all  into  a  regulation  uniform — 
down  here,  in  the  bandage  room,  at  any  rate — 
and  some  of  them  have  come  from  their  homes 
and  wear  their  own  pretty  blouses  and  their  high- 
heeled  slippers  and  their  ear-rings,  the  rest  being 
enveloped  in  the  all-concealing  apron.  Many  are 
in  the  full  uniform  of  the  hospital,  that  is  in  snow- 
62 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

white,  with  red  crosses  on  their  breasts  and  a  little 
coif  on  their  heads,  medieval  in  its  effect,  and 
under  their  hands  and  round  about  them  all  are 
yards  upon  yards,  and  piles  upon  piles  of  the  fine 
snowy  material  that  is  to  go  out  from  here  to  its 
ghastly  yet  merciful  usage. 

Here  I  worked  yesterday  all  day  long,  and  from 
here  I  shall  be  called  shortly,  when  needed,  to  go 
upstairs  into  the  wards. 

Here  I  saw  the  English  Chaplain,  with  his 
Doctor  of  Divinity  cap  on  his  head — another 
picturesque  figure — and  he  told  me  that  the 
mortality  was  something  frightful,  that  the 
American  hospital  asked  for  the  worst  cases,  and 
got  them  with  a  vengeance.  He  looked  worn 
and  troubled  ;  he  has  been  at  so  many  deathbeds 
of  brave  British  officers  torn  suddenly  from 
peaceful  England,  from  their  sports  and  from  their 
home  occupations,  to  spill  their  blood  on  this 
foreign  shore,  almost  without  warning,  scarcely 
knowing  why,  and  their  people  certainly  not 
knowing  where  they  had  fallen.  In  many  cases 
no  communication  has  been  made  with  their 
friends  until  they  have  gone  for  ever. 

In  my  lodging  house  in  London  I  took  an 

interest  in  Mrs.  B.,  whose  young  husband,  Capt.  B., 

in  the  Coldstream  Guards,  was  aide-de-camp  to  the 

General.     He  died  on  the  I4th  September,  alone, 

63 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  a  barn — quite  alone — shot  through  the  intes- 
tines. She  never  knew  until  the  end  of  the  month 
that  he  was  even  wounded. 

I  went  upstairs  yesterday  to  talk  with  a  young 
lieutenant  of  the  same  regiment — such  a  nice 
boy.  I  really  do  not  think  he  was  more  than  19, 
and  he  looked  like  a  child.  He  sat  there  in  the 
dressing-gown  that  some  American  gentleman  had 
given  him,  his  brown  hands  clasped  so  meekly — 
such  a  charming,  gentle  chap.  I  tell  you,  it  makes 
your  heart  sick  when  you  think  of  the  flower  of 
English  manhood,  with  all  its  promise,  being  mown 
down  by  those  barbarians  to  whom  honour  is  only 
a  word,  and  in  whose  souls,  so  far,  we  have  not 
seen  one  glimmer  of  spirituality  or  grace. 

A  woman  I  know  here  had  her  house  rifled, 
and  what  was  left  desecrated  by  the  Crown 
Prince  and  his  officers.  He  packed  up  boxes  full  of 
her  treasures,  had  them  marked  with  the  Red  Cross, 
to  ensure  their  respect  by  the  Allied  armies,  and 
shipped  them  to  Germany — a  robber  who  should 
have  been  a  prince,  a  murderer  who  should  have 
been  a  knight. 

Best  love, 
M. 

DEAR  MOLLIE, 

I  lunched  yesterday  with  a  Depute  and 
with  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Military  Red  Cross 
64 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

here.  The  latter  was  one  of  the  big  French  doctors, 
a  man  who  has  had  charge  of  field  ambulances,  and 
he  said  that  whilst  he  was  tending  the  wounded 
on  the  field  near  Paris  a  German  officer  with  two 
others,  came  up  to  him,  when  his  hands  were  busy 
with  bandages,  and,  with  his  pistol  at  the  doctor's 
breast,  demanded  his  watch  and  his  portemonnaie, 
all  of  which,  of  course,  were  handed  over.  "  I 
gave  up  my  belongings,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and 
they  turned  and  walked  off  together.  Strangely 
enough,  they  had  not  sufficiently  protected  them- 
selves, for  a  man  whom  I  was  tending — a  wounded 
officer — still  had  his  pistol.  I  tore  it  out  of  its  case, 
and  I  shot  all  three  in  the  back  as  they  walked 
away."  No  doubt  he  would  be  blamed  by  those 
whose  codes  are  against  shooting  men  in  the  back, 
but  I  do  not  think  you  will  blame  him,  will  you  ? 

But  to  the  stories  and  pictures  of  this  war 
there  is  absolutely  no  end. 

La  Rue's,  the  restaurant,  is  full  of  generals  and 
their  staffs,  newspaper  correspondents  (there  won't 
be  many  left,  though,  presently,  for  they  are  all 
being  sent  away),  Red  Cross  nurses,  and  the 
drifting  few  who  have  remained  and  those  who  are 
merely  passing  through. 

After  my  work  last  night  I  walked  all  the  way 
home  from  the  Porte  Maillot,  and  stopped  on  the 
way  at  the  Astoria,  where  the  Red  Cross  is  in  full 

65  E 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

swing.  There,  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the  corridor, 
I  found  a  woman  weeping,  and  it  was  poor  little 
L.,  our  slipper  woman.  She  had  come  to  deliver 
a  pair  of  slippers  for  the  head  nurse.  She  said 
to  me :  "  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  give  me  something  to  do — anything,  wash 
floors,  or  scrub — something  to  take  me  out  of  the 
Rue  Cambon  and  my  shop  so  that  I  may  forget 
those  fields  and  that  dreadful  distance  where  my 
son  is.  I  know  nothing  of  him,  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  him,  and  I  cannot  go  on  making  slippers 
for  the  Americans  and  for  my  clients  ;  I  want  to 
change  my  ideas."  I  shall  certainly  try  to  do 
something  for  the  woman,  even  if  I  only  bring  her 
to  my  house  and  let  her  sit  and  sew  in  my  parlour, 
so  as  to  comfort  her  if  I  can. 

Devotedly, 

MARIE. 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andreivs,  New  York. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

Amongst  the  parcels  given  me  to  bring 
from  London  was  a  pair  of  field  glasses  sent  to  a 
little  subaltern,  for  field  glasses  are  almost  im- 
possible to  buy  now,  as  there  are  none  left  in  Paris ; 
and  one  of  the  girls  who  had  laden  me  down  with 
messages  offered  to  pay  my  way  around  Paris  for 
the  delivery  of  these  things,  thinking  that  cabs 

66 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

would  be  rare.  So  I  took  a  carriage  and  devoted 
the  entire  day  to  these  little  commissions.  The 
man  I  used  to  employ  has  gone  to  the  war  ;  forty 
horses  have  been  taken  from  that  stable  and  only 
two  left,  and  I  had  one  of  those  two — a  broken- 
down  old  black  thing — driven  by  a  man  on  the 
pleasant  side  of  sixty,  I  should  say. 

After  clattering  around  for  some  time,  I  found 
a  little  old  pharmacien  and  his  little  old  wife, 
far  down  on  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  sitting 
over  their  soup  au  choux  at  mid-day.  They  had 
both  been  weeping,  and  when  I  knocked  at  the 
door,  they  started  up  in,  I  think,  alarm  lest  it 
might  be  one  of  those  dreaded  announcements  : 
"  Tue  a  1'ennemie."  They  were  so  old  both  of 
them,  their  voices  were  well-nigh  gone.  They 
looked  such  pitiable  objects  of  humanity,  every- 
thing worn  away  by  the  years  but  their  power  of 
suffering,  and  their  love.  Over  my  shoulder  was 
slung  the  pair  of  field-glasses  sent  by  the  daughter 
— a  French  maid  to  Lady  C.  in  London — to  her 
brother  on  the  field,  and  I  could  hardly  give  them 
without  tears.  I  do  not  think  I  did.  I  had  only 
seen  the  maid  once,  she  was  nothing  to  me,  and 
when  she  asked  me  to  carry  those  field  glasses 
it  was  one  more  packet  where  I  had  already  so 
many.  They  were  always  in  the  way  when  I 
wanted  to  unbutton  my  coat  and  get  out  my  purse, 

67 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  bothered  me  on  the  whole  journey,  but  when  I 
took  them  off  and  handed  them  to  the  parents,  and 
saw  their  delight,  and  gave  them  the  message  from 
London,  well,  I  have  not  done  one  little  thing  which 
has  given  me  so  much  pleasure  in  a  long  while. 

After  that,  Webb  and  I  drove  through  the 
Marche  du  Temple,  and  I  bought  all  the  vegetables 
for  the  soup  and  our  luncheon  myself,  and  the 
whole  luncheon  that  day  only  cost  me  a  franc. 
I  cooked  it  myself,  and  it  showed  me  how  much 
money  is  continually  wasted  on  food. 

Upstairs,  in  the  office  of  the  Matin,  I  stood 
with  Le  Roux's  secretary  before  a  big  military  map 
on  Robert's  desk,  and  saw  how  he  had  followed  day 
by  day  and  week  by  week  the  campaign  of  that 
soldier  son,  marking  with  blue  pencil  from  Paris 
north  to  Toul ;  and  I  saw  the  big  ring  around 
Toul,  and  the  letters  by  the  side  of  that  map, 
ranged  so  carefully,  to  his  father  ;  and  the  letters 
on  the  other  side,  ranged  so  carefully,  day  by  da}', 
to  his  sister,  and  day  by  day  to  the  young  girl 
whom  he  should  have  married  the  night  before  he 
left  for  the  front — and  my  heart  ached.  It  all 
seems  such  a  cruel,  dreadful  waste,  although  out  of 
it  heroes  will  rise,  and  new  events  and  new  destinies 
will  make  new  powers,  and  the  new  "  couche  " 
will  be  better  than  the  old — with  what  blood  and 
tears  the  flowers  are  watered ;  and  I  thought 

68 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

of  Robert  hurrying  down  over  those  encumbered 
roads,  with  his  breaking  heart,  for  he  certainly 
loved  his  children  most  deeply. 

How  profound  and  touching  everything  is  in 
these  days  ! 

It  is  full  moon  again,  and  it  rises  over  these 
grey  roofs  and  over  these  lovely  trees  with  the 
same  tranquil  beauty  as  before.  They  do  not  light 
the  clock  in  the  Chambre  des  Deputes,  the  hours 
are  no  longer  luminous — one  might  say ;  every- 
where and  everything  seems  to  be  watching  and 
waiting — but  the  clock  speaks  just  the  same  and 
marks  the  hours.  .  .  . 

When  you  think  that  what  I  saw  yesterday 
was  only  the  picture  of  one  afternoon  in  one 
military  hospital,  it  makes  you  shudder  to  imagine 
the  anguish  that  is  spread  over  four  countries 
at  this  present  moment. 

When  I  went  in  yesterday,  taking  with  me 
Miss  Arkwright,  a  nurse  from  Guy's  Hospital, 
London,  to  Mrs.  Vanderbilt,  I  found  that  she  had 
picked  me  out  of  the  bandage  room  (probably 
because  I  made  such  poor  bandages),  and  ap- 
pointed me  to  Ward  69.  I  assure  you,  when  I 
heard  then  that  I  was  actually  going  into  a  hospital 
ward  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  you  could  have 
bought  me  for  twenty-five  centimes.  I  have 

69 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

always  gone  past  surgical  wards  with  my  eyes 
straight  in  front  of  me,  but  when  Mrs.  V.  fixed 
me  with  her  serene  look,  I  did  not  dare  to 
flinch.  Why  should  I  ?  I  had  come  for  work. 
As  we  walked  through  those  interminable  halls 
together,  she  said  calmly,  "  It  is  the  worst  ward 
in  the  hospital ;  you  have  had  some  experience, 
haven't  you  ?  "  And  I  said,  "  Only  home  nursing, 
but  I  am  not  afraid ;  "  and,  singularly  enough, 
I  was  not.  It  was  up  to  me,  and  I  would  not  have 
flinched  for  anything  in  the  world. 

When  the  door  opened  on  Ward  69  you  could 
have  cut  the  atmosphere  of  that  room  with  a 
knife  !  Never,  never  have  you  dreamed  of  such 
an  odour  !  There  were  only  seven  men  in  that 
room,  and  five  women  nurses.  "  Pretty  good 
average,"  you.  would  say.  Well,  from  the  moment 
I  entered  that  room  at  two  o'clock  until  I  left  it  at 
seven,  not  one  of  us  had  sat  down  once. 

I  was  presented  to  the  head  nurse — such  an 
angel !  A  Canadian,  of  course — I  am  crazy  about 
Canadians,  men  and  women  ;  there  is  something 
superb  about  them.  Then  another  London  nurse, 
a  French-Canadian,  and  an  exquisite  little  French 
lady,  not  more  than  sixteen — think  of  it — a  little 
sweet,  angel-faced  aide,  and  myself. 

Well,  these  were  the  patients  : 

A  Welsh  boy,  a  handsome  young  fellow,  with 
70 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

double  fracture  and  leg  showing  signs  of  gangrene  ; 
a  Frenchman  over  in  one  corner,  whose  trouble 
I  do  not  know  ;  a  nigger  from  South  Africa  with 
shell  wounds  and  doing  fairly  well.  He  had  not 
spoken  one  word  since  he  entered  the  hospital 
the  week  before  ;  his  poor  little  barbaric  language 
could  not  be  understood  by  any  one  near.  Then 
a  pitiful  object,  to  whom  I  was  asked  to  give  sips 
of  water,  boasting  of  not  less  than  five  wounds  in 
his  legs  ;  another  riddled  with  bullets  and  a 
fractured  arm  and  leg ;  and  a  lieutenant  from 
Lyons  the  colour  of  an  orange,  his  leg  amputated 
in  the  middle  of  the  thigh.  Almost  as  soon  as  I 
entered  the  room  he  asked  me  if  I  was  French,  and 
I  told  him  that  I  was  a  Parisienne  j  ust  to  comfort 
him.  And  lastly,  Thomas,  to  whom  we  owed  all 
the  discomfort  of  our  ward.  The  whole  of  his 
left  side  was  gangrened,  and  he  had  been  there  a 
week  in  that  putrid,  dreadful  state — and  those 
women  bore  it  without  a  word.  During  the  day 
he  said  to  me  in  his  muffled  voice  :  "I  lies  here, 
trying  not  to  give  no  trouble  ;  I  don't  call  no  one, 
so  as  not  to  disturb  these  ladies  ;  sometimes  I  think 
I  am  too  good."  This,  of  course,  was  said  at  in- 
tervals, and,  he  added,  looking  at  the  head  nurse 
with  positive  adoration,  "  I  jes'  loves  my  nurses." 
The  ward  was  beautifully  fitted,  of  course, 
yet — it  seems  hard  to  believe — there  was  not 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

enough  of  anything,  even  of  scissors  or  alcohol, 
and  there  was  only  one  pair  of  gloves  for  that 
infected  room.  I  am  going  to  take  a  supply  to- 
day, if  they  can  be  bought  in  Paris.  One  of  the 
nurses  had  a  newly-made  cut  on  her  arm  ;  she 
was  impervious  to  the  danger.  "  You  must  be 
careful/'  I  said,  and  bound  up  her  arm  for  her; 
and  she  smiled  and  responded  :  "  Careful  in  this 
room  ?  " — as  much  to  say,  it  is  fate  if  it  goes 
wrong. 

I  think  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  put  me  in  there  to  see 
what  I  could  stand,  or  how  soon  she  could  get  rid 
of  me.  Naturally,  I  might  have  done  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  did,  if  it  had  been  even  a  second  day, 
but,  to  my  tremendous  surprise,  I  found  myself  able 
to  bear  a  very  great  deal.  I  assisted  at  two  of  the 
dressings  without  feeling  the  slightest  atom  of 
nausea,  and  carried  away  pile  after  pile  of  that 
loathsome,  infected  linen  ;  but  I  will  not  go  into 
further  details,  for  what  is  the  use  ? 

I  also  bandaged  one  of  the  men's  legs,  and  I 
could  not  sleep  last  night  for  fear  my  first  dressing 
might  have  slipped.  Heavens  !  if  I  should  have 
done  any  harm. 

Every  little  service  paid  so  richly.  Oh,  you 
would  never  dream  that  such  courage  could  exist, 
never  !  Several  times  I  felt,  not  like  fainting,  but 
like  weeping  my  heart  out. 

72 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

We  had  Dr.  Blake  in  there,  four  or  five  American 
doctors,  and  two  big  Frenchmen  ;  and,  naturally, 
it  was  terribly  interesting,  only  one  must  get  over 
the  last  little  remnant  of  delicacy,  and  have  one's 
nerves  and  stomach  well  screwed  down.  One  of 
the  big  French  doctors  made  successfully  six 
capital  wound  washings  and  dressings  ;  then  he 
sat  down.  His  face  was  a  study.  I  said  to  him, 
"This  is  my  debut,"  and  he  looked  at  me  with 
a  strange  smile.  "  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said, 
"  it  is  a  strong  beginning." 

Nothing  affected  the  smell  in  that  room,  and 
all  the  way  home  last  night,  down  to  the  Palais 
Bourbon,  I  wondered  what  had  happened  to 
Paris,  for  I  could  not  get  it  out  of  my  nostrils. 
One  of  the  young  American  doctors,  however — 
who  deserves  a  decoration — brought  in  a  whole 
staff  of  men,  and  moved  poor  Thomas  out  of  the 
ward,  upstairs,  to  a  room  by  himself,  where  he 
ought  to  have  been  long  ago. 

Those  head  nurses  have  had  no  relief,  I  don't 
know  for  how  long.  What  is  needed  here  is — 
more  first-class  women.  There  are  lots  of  helpers, 
but  the  big  women  are  needed.  Nowhere  in 
history  have  such  wounds  been  seen  as  the  Ger- 
mans inflict,  and  this,  remember,  is  only  one 
corner  of  one  hospital  in  this  stricken  city,  and 
there  are  all  the  provinces,  and  London,  and 

73 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Belgium,  and  Russia,  and  Germany  !  Heavens  ! 
it  makes  your  brain  reel. 

One  touching  little  incident :  when  the  doctor 
was  dressing  one  of  the  worst  cases,  and  the  man 
was  screaming  terribly  (that,  I  assure  you,  was 
hard  to  bear),  the  Welsh  boy  leaned  over,  took  his 
glass  of  lemonade,  and  handed  it  to  me  with  such 
an  appealing  look  :  "  Give  him  this,"  he  said, 
as  one  hurt  child  might  to  another  ;  he  could  not 
bear  those  cries,  they  were  worse  than  battle. 

My  maid  came  in  to  me  the  other  day  and  said, 
with  a  smile  of  positive  joy,  "  Isn't  it  perfectly 
lovely,  Miss,  another  son  of  the  '  Kayser  '  has  been 
killed."  I  have  not  seen  a  woman  who  would 
not  tear  the  War  Lord  to  pieces  with  her  own 
hands,  and  I  could  begin  it  with  joy.  All  I  regret 
is,  that  I  cannot  really  throw  myself  into  that 
work  up  there,  and  serve  and  help  as  those  women 
do.  I  never  could  ;  it  is  not  in  me  to  love  it,  and 
I  think  that  the  profession  of  a  trained  nurse  is 
one  of  the  noblest,  most  superb  sacrifices  that  there 
is.  There  is  a  whole  hospital  here  on  the  Champs 
Elysees  where  there  are  nothing  but  women 
doctors  and  surgeons  and  girl  scouts  and  nurses. 
I  must  say  I  am  glad  it  is  the  men  who  are  sick, 
and  not  the  women.  I  wish  we  could  have  one 
or  two  of  those  nurses  from  the  American  ship 
that  has  just  come  over. 

74 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  am  wondering  if,  perhaps,  when  I  get  back 
this  afternoon,  they  will  not  have  taken  me  out 
of  that  ward  and  set  me  to  making  tea  or  counting 
linen,  and  after  they  have  found  that  I  am  good- 
for-nothing-at-all  anywhere,  then  I  shall  disappear. 

Mrs.  H.  C.  Van  Vorst. 

AMERICAN  AMBULANCE, 

NEUILLY,  PARIS,  Oct.  isth. 

DEAREST  MOTHER, 

Day  after  day  goes  by  in  such  rapid  suc- 
cession now  that  one  loses  the  sense  of  time  as 
never  before,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  jotted  down 
some  first  impressions,  because  to  me,  as  to  others, 
they  will  soon  be  old  stories,  taking  their  place  in 
the  routine  of  life  and  losing  the  clear-cut  brilliance 
of  novelty. 

I  was  taken  from  my  infected  ward  by  Mrs. 
Vanderbilt  to  another,  and  although  I  must  confess 
my  heart  ached  to  leave  those  women  with  whom 
I  had  already  begun  to  fraternise,  I  felt  in  a  way 
that  it  was  God's  mercy  that  I  got  out  as  I  did.  I 
speak  of "  fraternising  "  with  the  nurses  ;  the  faces 
of  all  those  who  had  begun  already  to  look  upon 
me  as  a  friend  will  be  written  for  years  in  my  mind 
as  their  eyes  followed  me  to  the  door.  I  held  back 
and  said  to  Mrs.  Vanderbilt,  "  Oh,  please  leave 
me  here ;  "  but  she  was  determined. 

75 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  found  myself  in  Ward  63,  as  aide  to  the  head 
nurse — in  the  chic  room  of  the  hospital.  Oh, 
Heavens  !  what  a  difference,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  wing  and  a  whole  corridor  away.  There  the 
atmosphere  was  almost  Paradise.  There  were 
four  English  officers  and  three  French — high-class 
men,  two  of  them  just  about  going  away — lucky 
dogs  !  I  won't  go  into  details  of  those  snobbish, 
agreeable  little  wards,  where  all  the  ladies  come, 
and  where  superb  fruit  and  flowers  are  in  sight  all 
the  time. 

My  head  nurse  is  a  delicious  little  person,  a 
trained  nurse  for  thirty-three  jrears — think  of  it ! 
— and  capability  itself  ;  she  is  very  sweet  to  me. 
Mrs.  Austin  is  with  her  in  the  morning,  and  I 
come  on  from  two  to  seven. 

I  will  just  give  you  the  salient  points  : 

Captain  K.  is  a  handsome  young  man,  soft  and 
gentle  of  speech.  He  thinks  I  am  a  subordinate — 
I  do  not  know  why — and  treats  me  de  haut  en  has 
in  a  way  that  would  make  any  spoilt  American 
woman's  blood  boil,  but  it  just  amuses  me  to  death. 

Next  to  him  is  a  gentle  lamb  of  a  French  boy, 
about  thirty.  I  wish  you  could  see  him,  with  his 
tanned  face  and  his  eager  eyes  ;  he  was  shot 
through  the  shoulder  and  arms,  and  all  he  cares 
for  at  all  is  to  brush  his  teeth  about  forty  times 
every  second  and  be  clean  !  There  yon  go  for  dirty 

76 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Frenchmen,  and  he  was  as  clean  as  a  sheaf  of 
wheat  on  a  bright  summer's  day  ! 

During  the  day  I  got  interested  in  a  young  lieu- 
tenant from  Guernsey,  who  had  gone  through  a 
severe  attack  of  appendicitis  on  the  field  and  been 
carried  off.  When  I  took  my  leave  that  night, 
the  head  nurse  said  that  the  boy  was  to  be  operated 
on  in  the  morning. 

I  had  never  seen  an  operation,  and  if  you  will 
remember  the  state  I  was  in  last  winter  at  the 
idea  of  their  cutting  you  up,  you  can  guess  how 
the  whole  thing  affects  me ;  but  as  I  returned 
home  last  evening  I  determined  that,  cost  what 
it  would,  I  was  going  to  stand  by  that  boy  for 
his  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  the  people  in 
Guernsey  who  do  not  know  where  he  is. 

Although  my  duties  do  not  begin  till  two,  I  was 
at  the  hospital  at  eight  in  the  morning,  and  asked 
Dr.  Blake  as  he  came  in  if  I  could  assist  at  the 
operation  on  Lieutenant  C. 

On  my  arrival  in  my  ward,  I  saw  Lieut.  C. 
being  pushed  out  on  the  rolling  chair,  accompanied 
by  an  orderly.  At  first  we  went  into  the  big 
antechamber.  (Everything  at  the  hospital  here 
is  on  a  large  scale  and  perfectly  appointed.)  .  .  . 
I  talked  to  him  about  all  kinds  of  things,  and  went 
out  for  a  second  to  get  him  a  blanket.  As  I  did 
so,  the  doctor  of  my  old  infected  ward  was  speaking 

77 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

to  one  of  the  surgeons  in  the  corridor.  "  Can't 
you  operate  on  him  at  once  ?  "  I  heard  him  ask. 
"  It  is  hemorrhage,  and  he  cannot  last  if  you  don't." 
Then  they  rolled  in  poor  Charlie  Hern,  the  boy 
from  my  first  ward — the  Welshman  who  wanted 
to  give  his  lemonade  to  his  friend.  It  was  horrible, 
that  is  the  only  word  for  it.  In  four  days  he  had 
gone  down  to  death.  His  condition  was  so 
appalling  that  I  am  not  going  to  describe  it  to  you, 
and  I  did  not  dare  to  approach  him  as  he  was  one 
mass  of  infection,  and  my  boy  by  whom  I  stood 
was  so  clean ;  but  I  smiled  at  Charlie,  and  he 
looked  at  me  and  knew  me,  and  I  felt  as  I  went 
into  the  next  room  by  the  side  of  C.  that  I  was 
deserting  a  ship  going  down  in  the  storm. 

It  took  a  long  while  to  get  the  young  lieutenant 
under  the  influence  of  an  anaesthetic,  he  was  so 
strong  and  so  normal.  Without  the  slightest 
feeling  of  emotion  other  than  interest,  I  watched 
Dr.  Blake  operate  from  beginning  to  end.  Right 
out  of  a  clear  sky  as  one  might  walk  in  from  the 
street,  with  no  preparation,  I  saw  the  whole  thing  ! 
It  was  a  very  bad  operation,  as  the  appendix  lay 
well  up  under  the  peritoneum.  There  were  seven 
doctors  watching  Dr.  Blake,  who  is  a  perfect  marvel, 
and,  as  we  stood  there,  Charlie  Hern's  frail  barque 
had  touched  the  Port,  and  when  we  came  out 
again  they  had  taken  him  away. 

78 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

That  afternoon  one  of  our  empty  beds  was 
filled  by  a  Marine  Commandant — a  man  of  sixty, 
who  had  one  foot  amputated  and  the  other  leg 
shot,  so  you  can  imagine  his  condition,  if  you  like. 
Whilst  they  dressed  his  amputated  foot  he  held 
both  my  hands  in  his  big  grip,  trying  not  to  scream 
aloud. 

Well,  I  can  stand  it,  I  have  proved  that ; 
and  I  must  tell  you  that  there  is  a  great  fascina- 
tion in  it  all.  There  are  interminable  walks  from 
my  ward  to  the  far  kitchen,  walks  that  take  me 
through  both  the  principal  wards  in  which  there  are 
at  least  two  hundred  patients.  Even  those  walks 
have  become  a  sort  of  distraction — think  of  it ! 
One  of  the  nurses  wears  a  pedometer,  and  yesterday 
she  found  that  she  had  walked  twenty  kilometers 
during  the  day. 

Now  I  want  to  speak  of  Vera  Arkwright,  who 
replaced  me  in  the  gangrene  ward.  She  is 
perfectly  beautiful,  full  of  sympathy  and  sweetness, 
and  a  warm  friend  of  Bridget  Guiness.  I  got 
her  into  the  hospital  with  a  vague  feeling  that  she 
was  simply  going  to  flirt  with  the  officers  and 
perhaps  make  me  regret.  Well,  well !  Vera  has 
been  in  that  ward  now  from  eight  in  the  morning 
until  half  past-six  every  night.  I  wish  you  could 
see  her — with  crimson  cheeks  and  a  floating  veil, 
carrying  the  vilest  of  linen  and  oilcloth — not  to 

79 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

throw  away,  but  to  wash  it  herself  with  a 
scrubbing  brush.  She  has  a  keen  sense  of 
humour,  and  even  amid  the  horrors  it  shines  forth. 

Yesterday  she  was  heartbroken  over  Hern, 
and  told  me  that  the  bullet  in  one  of  his  wounds 
had  severed  a  vein,  and  when  she  came  in  on  duty 
this  terrible  hemorrhage  had  flooded  the  bed  and 
the  floor,  and  it  was  she  who  cleaned  all  that  up. 
Yes,  and  she  gathered  up  his  little  treasures  to 
save  for  his  people,  and  going  into  the  linen  room, 
from  under  all  the  filthy  bandages  extracted  the 
poor  little  tin  cigarette  case  which  had  been  thrown 
out  as  rubbish. 

Last  night,  at  half-past  ten,  my  bell  rang,  and 
poor  Vera  blew  in  asking  for  a  morsel  of  food,  as 
when  she  came  out  from  duty  every  restaurant  in 
Paris  was  shut.  So  my  maid  and  I  fed  her  up 
and  sent  her  home.  She  certainly  is  a  brick,  and 
Glory  Hancock,  if  she  comes,  will  be  another. 

Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  this  same  thing 
is  not  going  on  everywhere  ;  only  not  everybody 
has  time  to  make  pictures  of  it. 

In  one  of  the  big  wards  there  is  a  little  Spahi 
from  Morocco,  black  as  coal.  He  has  a  bayonet 
wound  and  cannot  live.  He  wants  some  of  his 
own  Morocco  food  and  what  it  is,  God  knows,  but, 
of  course,  he  cannot  explain,  and  the  sweet  little 
girl  who  is  taking  care  of  him  told  me  that  he  is 

80 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

just  as  cross  as  he  can  be,  and  waves  her  away 
every  time  she  comes  near  with  his  black  hands, 
saying  :  "  Pas  ca,  pas  ga."  He  calls  the  head 
nurse,  "  Mamma,"  and  will  only  eat  when  she  feeds 
him. 

One  man  told  me  that  he  lay  wounded  in  the 
arm  for  two  days,  his  companions  on  each  side  shot 
under  his  eyes  ;  then,  alone,  he  dragged  himself 
across  the  field  to  the  ambulance.  He  will  never 
go  back  either  to  England  or  the  field — his  fields 
are  farther  on,  and,.  God  knows,  dearly  won  1 

Another  has  been  twelve  days  in  the  trenches, 
with  the  dead  and  dying  on  every  side. 

Best  love, 
M. 

To  Miss  Anna  Lusk,  New  York. 

DEAR  ANNA, 

The  days  will  soon  begin  to  repeat 
themselves,  and  I  will  continue  to  note,  whilst 
they  still  have  colour  to  me,  various  scenes  in  the 
hospital. 

I  am  in  my  snobbish  and  select  ward.  Would 
you  ever  believe  that  I  could  make  a  good  trained 
nurse  ?  Never.  Well,  I  am  a  bully  trained 
nurse  !  You  cannot  hear  me  move  about  that 
ward — not  a  sound.  I  don't  think  I  have  dropped 
a  thing  since  I  went  into  the  hospital,  and  I've 

81  F 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

never  forgotten  anything,  and  I  am  sure  that 
pedometer  would  have  registered  17  kilometers 
on  me  to-day,  for  the  head  nurse  doesn't  mind 
sending  me  up  and  down  those  interminable 
stairs  to  that  diet  kitchen,  and  Heaven  knows 
where  not !  with  great  big  iron  brocs  full  of  hot 
and  cold  water,  and  I  never  show  the  slightest 
sign  of  having  too  much  of  the  job.  I  can  do  all 
the  tricks  and  stunts  now  pretty  clearly,  lift  them 
up  in  bed,  wash  them  and  comb  them,  and,  you 
know,  I  am  a  very  good  masseuse.  The  thing  that 
has  surprised  me  most  of  all  is  that  it  does  not 
make  me  nervous  or  restless,  and,  honestly,  not 
even  very  tired.  I  went  on  to-day  at  twelve  and 
came  off  at  6.30,  and,  after  a  hot  bath,  here  I  am 
sitting,  fresh  as  a  daisy,  except  for  my  feet  which 
are  a  little  bit  tired. 

Thank  God,  there  are  convalescents  in  this 
ward,  some  going  to  England,  some  to  recuperate 
at  Versailles,  and  some  back  to  the  Front. 

Into  our  ward  three  days  ago  was  brought,  oh, 
such  a  wonderful  old  man — a  magnificent,  rugged 
Commandant,  K.C.B., pilot  of  the  naval  aeroplanes. 
Only  four  days  ago  he  was  rushing  in  his  motor, 
with  his  young  son,  who  was  on  the  Staff,  across 
these  scarred  and  dreadful  fields  and  roads.  In 
the  night  they  drove  against  some  obstacle,  their 
motor  was  overturned,  and  they  were  imprisoned 
82 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

under  it.  The  General  came  to  his  senses  to 
find  that  he  could  not  move  and  his  son  was 
groaning  near  him.  In  order  to  free  himself  to 
get  to  his  boy,  he  tried  to  cut  off  his  own  foot,  but 
failed,  and  lay  waiting  till  morning,  when  he  was 
found,  and  taken  to  the  nearest  ambulance  where 
his  foot  was  amputated  ;  and  now  he  lies  here 
maimed  for  ever,  with  his  other  leg  fractured  from 
thigh  to  ankle.  Of  course,  his  agony  has  been 
terrible.  His  greatest  anxiety  at  first  was  that 
they  should  find  his  gold  monocle  which  he  had 
dropped  when  he  was  wounded,  poor  darling  ! 
When  they  did  find  it,  he  looked  so  smart  and  so 
pathetic  lying  there  ;  and  then  his  aides  came  in, 
and  he  gave  them  minute  directions  how  to  make 
the  necessary  arrangements  in  London,  so  that 
when  he  could  stump  about  on  his  foot,  and  his 
leg  got  well,  he  could  go  on  flying.  Think  of  it ! 
His  spirit  had  not  lost  its  -wings,  at  any  rate. 
His  son  lay  wounded  in  another  hospital  here, 
and  he  wanted  news  of  him,  and  he  was  dead  ! 
Well,  yesterday,  after  they  had  dressed  his 
dreadful  wound,  I  saw  the  orderly  tell  him.  The 
Commandant  never  said  one  single  word,  he  just 
lay  there,  that  monocle  staring  into  the  room. 
Then  they  left  him  alone.  Is  not  human  nature 
strange  ?  That  virile  officer  who  screamed  when 
they  dressed  his  leg,  and  clung  to  a  woman's  hands, 

83 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

never  turned  a  hair  or  wept  a  tear  when  they  told 
him  that  his  only  boy  lay  dead  !  He  was  too 
proud  to  show  his  grief  in  the  hospital  ward, 
surrounded  by  junior  officers,  and  never  will  I 
forget  the  silhouette  of  that  finely  cut  face — he 
looks  a  little  like  Nelson — and  the  high-piled 
bedclothes  over  that  disfigured  body.  Well,  his 
wife  came  presently.  She  had  hurried  from  Eng- 
land to  her  mutilated  husband  and  had  just  heard 
this  crushing  news.  I  put  the  screens  around 
them ;  I  gave  her  the  eternal  cup  of  tea,  and 
left  them  quiet  and  controlled.  The  English  are 
certainly  wonderful.  That  was  yesterday  ;  in  our 
presence  he  has  not  shed  a  tear. 

I  like  him  best  of  anybody  in  the  ward — better 
even  than  my  little  blonde  French  officer,  whom 
I  massage  with  alcohol,  and  my  appendicitis 
boy. 

The  Commandant  said  to  me  to-day,  "  Are 
you  '  Marie  Van  Vorst '  ?  "  and  I  said,  "  Yes." 
Then  he  said  :  "I  have  read  your  books,"  and 
that  sounded  strange  ;  but  the  strangest  thing  of 
all  was  when  his  wife  came  again  and  suggested 
fetching  some  little  delicacy,  he  said  very  firmly, 
"  Never  mind,  my  dear,  I  am  in  the  hands  of 
professionals,  and  I  do  not  want  any  amateur 
affairs ; "  and  he  said  to  me  very  feelingly, 
"  Amateur  nurses  are  all  very  well,  but  when  you 

84 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

have  professional  care  like  this  it  spoils  you  for 
anything  else." 

Now  what  can  I  say  more  ?  Don't  you  think 
I  have  won  my  spurs  ?  I  smiled  feebly,  and  did 
not  give  myself  away. 

One  can  help  in  a  thousand  ways — and  the  men 
are  so  wonderful,  the  Americans  there,  who  have 
given  their  services  to  do  the  most  menial  and 
dreadful  offices  for  these  men.  You  see  bankers 
and  men  that  you  have  seen  in  society,  in  their 
white  uniforms,  bending  over  the  sick,  running 
miles  for  the  needful  offices,  and  oh,  so  kind  and 
so  useful ! 

Over  the  sofa  in  my  little  study  that  I  love 
so  much  is  an  enormous  war  map  now,  and  its 
history  will  take  its  place  with  many  other 
memories  in  this  room  ;  and  outside  the  windows 
are  the  English  and  French  and  Belgian  flags. 

I  am  prepared  every  day  to  be  thrown  out  of 
my  smart  ward,  and  if  I  have  to  go  back  to  that 
charnel  house  I  hope  that  God  will  give  me  grace. 
Vera  said  to-day,  "It  is  discouraging  to  work  for 
people  whom  you  know  will  all  be  dead  in  a  week." 
You  remember  in  the  Roman  games  how  the 
gladiators  used  to  cry,  "  Ave  Caesar,  those  who 
are  about  to  die  greet  you."  So  those  poor  crea- 
tures seem  to  salute  the  country  for  which  they  have 
fought,  and  surely  we  can  help  them  as  they  go. 

85 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

My  lieutenant  with  the  amputated  leg  in  the 
other  ward  has  gone  to-day.  That  is  four  out  of 
that  infected  ward,  and  three  nurses  are  sick  in 
bed  with  violent  fever  from  it.  Yet  Vera  is 
going  on  like  a  house  on  fire  at  her  job.  The 
poor  lieutenant  died  as  she  was  feeding  him, 
and  that  girl  did  all  the  solemn  and  dreadful 
offices  for  him.  She  is  wonderful. 

The  other  day  I  was  lunching  at  La  Rue's  in 
my  uniform,  when  a  gentleman  turned  to  me  and 
asked  :  "  Could  you  use  ten  ambulance  auto- 
mobiles ?  "  Well,  I  have  never  seen  the  time  yet 
when  I  could  not  use  what  was  offered  me.  As 
we  had  been  saying  that  very  day,  if  the  wounded 
could  only  be  brought  to  us  direct  from  the  firing 
line,  without  this  heart-rendering  transportation 
in  cattle  trains,  herded  together,  we  might  stand 
less  chance  of  gangrene  and  save  more  lives.  I 
said,  "  Of  course  I  can  use  the  ambulance  motors, 
and  if  you  will  give  them  to  me,  with  the  drivers, 
and  all  in  perfect  order  for  the  field  I  will  guarantee 
their  proper  use." 

I  have  been  mad  for  an  automobile  for  years, 
I  have  almost  prayed  for  one.  I  certainly  have 
wished  for  one  on  every  haystack,  but  I  didn't 
know  that  I  was  going  to  have  ten,  and  I  don't 
think  I  prayed  for  quite  this  kind. 

Events  and  impressions  crowd  thick  and  fast 
86 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  these  days,  and  if  I  don't  write  immediately 
the  contour  and  the  outline  is  lost. 

I  close  with  love, 

MARIE. 


To  Miss  B.  Andrews,  N.Y. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

One  wonders  if  one  has  forgotten  how  to 
feel  and  how  to  suffer,  because  it  seems  strange  to 
go  on  existing  when  on  all  sides  the  horror  and  the 
agony  is  so  intense.  To  people  living  their  normal 
and  calm  lives  in  countries  as  yet  untouched  by 
these  cataclysms,  the  words  "  battle"  and  "death" 
have  only  the  usual  significance.  They  cannot, 
even  remotely,  suffer  with  us — or,  I  should  say, 
with  them,  for  I  suppose  that  you  will  retort  to  me 
that  they  are  not  my  own  people.  Even 
down  here  in  the  little  coast  countries,  life  goes 
on  more  or  less  as  it  did,  and  even  London  pursues 
the  tenor  of  its  way.  Paris,  too,  is  more  normal, 
and  yet  within  a  few  miles  is  all  that  conglom- 
erate suffering,  and  that  long-drawn-out  horror. 

You  will  forgive  me  if  I  speak  of  my  own  sex. 
Later  on,  I  suppose,  will  be  told  more  fully  what 
they  are  doing  in  this  war.  They  are  wonderful — 
wonderful  indeed,  in  every  rank.  The  patience 
and  the  dignity  of  these  French  women  at  home, 

87 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

of  those  who  have  their  own  sous-le-feu,  as  they 
call  it,  awakens  a  never-ending  admiration.  The 
quiet  industry  that  continues  without  any  ap- 
parent change,  only  the  resigned  faces  and  the 
sudden  flashing  of  the  eyes  as  you  ask  them  : 
"  Have  you  anyone  at  the  firing  line  ?  "  The 
question  tells. 

Then  the  women  who  are  nursing  the  wounded 
everywhere,  and  yet,  enormous  as  that  response 
is,  it  is  not  great  enough  ;  the  need,  the  call,  is  far 
reaching  and  tremendous.  I  have  always  thought 
well  of  the  women,  but  never  so  well  as  I  do  now. 

And  those  women  of  my  own  class,  those 
who  have  not  the  scientific  training,  nothing 
but  their  natural  aptitude  and  their  beautiful 
tenderness,  they  are  lessons  indeed.  You  see 
them  everywhere.  Groups  of  nuns  have  come 
back  to  Paris  now  that  banishment  seems 
forgotten,  and  you  see  them  in  their  pretty 
dresses  in  the  streets  going  to  take  up  their 
service,  and  at  these  sinister  railroad  stations, 
where  they  hover  like  ministering  birds  from  one 
dreadful  shed  to  another.  And  the  women  in 
their  snow-white  dresses,  and  their  white  coifs 
with  the  Red  Cross ;  ladies  and  professionals 
ministering  everywhere.  I  do  not  think  you 
realise  how  truly  they  are  risking  their  lives  ; 
many  of  them  have  been  killed.  The  British 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  the  French  Red  Cross  have  quite  a  list 
of  those  shot  upon  the  battlefield,  intentionally 
and  by  accident ;  others  whom  shells  have  killed 
at  their  duty  ;  others  who  have  died  of  fever 
already — and  yet  the  need  is  unmet  and  over- 
whelming. These  English  women  of  station  and 
position  are  doing  magnificent  work,  all  of 
them. 

Robert's  brother-in-law  has  had  30,000 
wounded  this  month  pass  under  his  hand — a 
thousand  a  day  for  a  month — and  while  he  was 
selecting  from  those  maimed  and  ghastly  files  those 
who  were  to  go  on  and  those  who  were  to  remain 
behind,  they  came  to  tell  him  that  his  only  son 
had  fallen.  He  went  on  with  his  pitiful  work,  and 
then  his  wife  and  he  together  took  the  train  for 
the  distant  battlefield,  where  his  boy  was  buried. 
They  disinterred  him  and  the  father  put  that  poor 
body  on  some  straw  in  a  cart  and  drove  with  it 
eight  miles,  holding  meanwhile  his  son's  dead 
hand  in  his,  and  they  buried  him  in  a  little  country 
churchyard  until  after  the  war. 

All  day  long  before  his  station — Juvisy — 
these  trains  pass.  They  have  been  packed  in 
them  like  sardines,  with  every  kind  of  ghastly 
wound.  When  there  are  two  million  men  fighting, 
within  a  hundred  miles,  on  one  side  and  three 
million  on  the  other,  there  areagood  many  wounded 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

to  be  taken  care  of.  Try  to  think  a  little  of  it  as 
it  stands,  and  not  as  you  read  about  it  in  the 
papers.  Then  try  to  realise  the  way  the  women 
feel  over  here,  and  also  try  to  realise  that,  when 
you  are  told  they  are  nursing  the  wounded,  they 
are  not  doing  it  from  any  motive  but  one  of  human 
tenderness — to  impute  to  them  anything  else  is 
singularly  obtuse,  to  say  nothing  else. 

I  can  understand  how  one  must  be  "  fed  up  " 
with  the  war  when  one  is  of  none  of  the  countries 
that  are  fighting,  and  that  the  same  vivid  interest 
cannot  be  taken  in  it ;  but  what  is  one  to  write 
about  from  over  here  ?  You  see,  the  shops  are 
closed,  there  is  no  commerce  ;  every  woman  you 
see  has  all  she  loves  either  directly  affected  by 
this  tragedy  or  else  at  the  Front ;  therefore  life 
is  not  normal  with  us.  So  you  must  try  to  under- 
stand the  pitch  at  which  we  are  living,  and  if  we 
seem  egoists  in  the  way  we  suffer  for  the  convulsed 
nations,  you  must  forgive.  You  see,  we  cannot 
grasp  American  interests  either  now,  it  takes 
so  long  to  get  news  and  the  papers  have  none. 

There  are  beautiful  things  to  see  here.  In  the 
first  place,  the  weather  continues  to  be  divine, 
summer-like,  and  exquisite,  and  there  are  pictur- 
esque groups  everywhere.  Of  the  flowers  there 
are  chrysanthemums  of  varied  and  sombre  hue, 
and  there  is  a  quantity  of  fruit  in  the  streets,  and 

90 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  colours  are  rich  and  delicious.  And  there 
are  constant  processions  of  military  funerals — 
poor  and  rich  alike,  burying  their  glorious  dead. 

Yours  always, 

M. 


Mrs.  H.  C.  Van  Vorst,  Edgware,  England. 

Oct.  15. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  describe  the 
Aubervilliers  Station  as  I  saw  it  to-day.  I  went 
with  the  American  ambulances  early  in  the  morn- 
ing through  the  crowded  Paris  streets  to  this 
big  station,  where  they  select  from  the  trains 
of  wounded  those  who  are  to  come  to  Paris. 
The  station,  some  few  miles  from  the  city,  is 
fenced  off  and  guarded  by  Reservists  in  red 
trousers  and  blue  coats.  Here  are  a  corps  of 
military  doctors  who  receive  the  long  lines  of 
trains  from  the  north  bringing  in  their  ghastly 
loads,  and  these  loads  are  ghastly  enough,  God 
knows  !  Only  the  desperate  cases  are  taken  out, 
those  whom  a  few  miles  more  would  finish  for 
ever. 

We  run  our  ambulance  into  line  and  climb 
down  into  the  courtyard  full  of  slightly  wounded 
men  waiting  to  be  transported  to  other  parts  of 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

France.  Along  the  platforms  are  ranged  a  row 
of  neat  tents — two  of  them  booty  taken  from  the 
Germans.  One  is  a  little  operating-room,  another 
a  dressing-room,  the  third  a  kitchen  with  quantities 
of  good  things.  Then  there  is  a  tent  for  the  dead, 
one  for  the  dying,  and  one  for  those  who  are  to  be 
given  a  few  hours  of  repose  before  being  sent  on  to 
the  provinces,  and  in  front  of  those  mobile  houses, 
waiting  for  the  trains,  are  the  women  nurses — 
knitting,  reading,  resting,  quiet  and  dignified,  and 
with  that  look  that  all  women  wear  here  now — 
of  patience  and  strength. 

Among  those  little  groups  of  wounded  are 
several  whose  good  fortune  it  is  to  be  Parisian, 
and  who  have  been  permitted  to  see  their  wives 
and  families.  I  saw  one  of  these  meetings.  She 
came  hurrying  along,  a  little  woman  of  the  people, 
with  her  market  basket  on  her  arm,  breathless, 
eager,  and  her  husband  whom  she  had  not  seen 
since  the  beginning  of  the  war  stood  waiting  for 
her.  He  had  only  a  slight  inj  ury.  She  flew  to  his 
arms  and  he  was  able  to  embrace  her  and  lead  her 
away. 

In  the  big  station  itself  all  picturesqueness  is 
lost.  There  is  nothing  but  odour,  flies,  mosquitoes, 
and  crowds  upon  crowds  of  beds. 

The  room  apart  is  in  semi-darkness,  and  there 
must  be  250  beds  there,  and  all  full.  There  are 

92 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

wounded  Turcos  from  Algeria,  there  are  black 
Soudanese  from  the  peaceful  sands  of  the  Upper 
Nile,  there  are  Frenchmen,  there  are  English. 
They  wear  still  the  field  bandages,  put  on  in  some 
cases  by  Red  Cross  First  Aides  under  fire.  We 
want  some  of  these  badly  wounded  men,  and  we 
say  so,  and  we  get  two  of  them — shattered,  maimed, 
half-conscious.  They  are  carried  into  our  khaki 
covered  ambulance  and  carefully  placed  on  the 
stretchers,  and  we  are  off  with  them  over  the  road 
we  travelled  before — this  time  at  a  reduced 
speed  ;  back  again  through  Paris,  and  beyond  the 
gates. 

Yesterday  I  went  to  a  very  long  and  trying 
operation,  and  the  little  soldier  who  underwent 
it  was  so  thin  and  small  that  I  could  almost  have 
lifted  him  from  the  stretcher  to  the  operating 
table  without  any  help.  A  woman  doctor  gave 
the  anaesthetic,  a  fine  Brooklyn  woman. 

You  will  be  interested  to  know  that  my 
Commandant  has  gone  to  England.  I  helped  to 
put  him  in  the  ambulance  to-day  that  drives  him 
to  Rouen.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him  lying 
there,  so  dignified  and  patient,  with  his  naval 
cap  jauntily  on  his  head,  his  single  eyeglass  in  his 
eye,  and  those  poor  helpless  limbs  !  He  came  to 
France  alert,  agile,  full  of  manly  interest  and 

93 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

power,  with  his  son,  a  member  of  the  General 
Staff ;  and  he  goes  back  to  England  a  cripple  for 
life  and  his  son  a  glorious  name,  that  is  all ! 

Bessie's  experiences   at   Toul   have   been   in- 
teresting.    Twenty-five  days  she  was  there,  in  a 
tiny  country  hotel,  the  only  civilian  woman  in 
the   place — permitted   to  remain   solely   because 
she  was  so  gentle  and  unassuming  ;  hidden  in  the 
different  rooms,  when  the  police  made  their  visits, 
by  the  landlady,   who  adored  her.    There  was 
neither  butter  nor  milk ;    the  food  was  almost 
uneatable ;   she  went  to  bed  in  her  clothes ;   she 
knitted   fifteen   mufflers,  over   twenty   }^ards    of 
woollen  goods,  and  learned  the  Bible  by  heart  in 
chapters.     She   had  no  books,  could   write  and 
receive  no  letters  ;  could  not  go  to  the  hospital 
to  visit  the  sick ;   and  the  wounded  came  in  like 
a   crimson  flood    from    the    trenches — thousands 
upon  thousands,  a  pitiful  spectacle  in  that  four- 
teenth century  town.    And   the   beautiful  little 
medieval  church  in  the  shadow  of  the  October 
evening  at  Vespers — one  half  of  the  church  filled 
with  soldiers,  the  other  with  the  villagers,  most 
of  them  mourning  for  their  dead ;    and  without, 
the  birds,  brushing  their  wings  against  the  old 
window-panes ;   and   the   tolling   of   the   mellow 
bell,  and  the  elevation  of  the  Host  in  the  misty 
light  at  the  altar  above  those  heads,  many  of 

94 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

them  to  be  bowed  so  shortly  in  an  eternal  sub- 
mission. 

She  only  saw  Robert  for  an  hour  at  lunch  time. 
During  those  weeks  he  slept  in  a  cellar  on  bags 
containing  apples  and  pears,  with  his  son's  leaden 
coffin  by  his  side.  He  had  been  obliged  to  order 
it  the  first  day  he  came  to  Toul,  and  slept  beside 
it  all  the  time.  Think  of  that  ghastly  experience  ! 
And  toward  the  end  the  boy  asked  his  father  to 
read  him  fairy  tales,  and  only  to  read  the  ones 
that  ended  happily ;  so,  hour  after  hour,  he  told 
him  children's  stories  without  end.  He  says  that 
his  son  never  spoke  of  France  once  until  his  last 
day  on  earth ;  then  he  turned  to  his  father  and 
said  :  "  Elle  est  plus  grande,  la  France  ?  "  And 
then  "  Combien  de  metres  carres  ?  " — meaning 
how  many  feet  have  the  soldiers  gained — and 
closed  his  life  saying  :  "  Elle  est  plus  grande." 

Robert  Le  Roux,  jun.,  made  a  brave  and  beau- 
tiful military  career.  He  had  charge  of  a  regi- 
ment and  led  his  men  up  a  slope.  The  contingent 
knew  before  they  started  that  they  had  been  sent 
out  to  deceive  the  enemy  and  that  their  charge 
meant  death.  It  was  as  heroic  an  effort  as  could 
be  conceived.  They  had  to  go  up  the  hill  on  their 
bellies,  dragging  their  guns,  and  when  young  R. 
saw  that  they  hesitated  to  advance,  he  stood  up 

95 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  the  full  fire  and  told  his  men  that  if  they  did 
not  advance  he  would  go  up  on  foot — which 
meant  to  certain  and  immediate  death.  Then 
they  moved,  and  he  shook  them  by  the  shoulders 
and  called  to  them,  encouraging  them  to  go  on. 
He  was  shot  whilst  giving  a  glass  of  water  to  his 
Commander,  who  was  mortally  wounded,  and  he 
lay  on  the  field  for  hours.  One  of  his  soldiers,  who 
had  been  a  rascally  fellow  and  difficult  to  deal 
with,  came  crawling  up  to  him  and  tried  to  drag 
his  superior  officer  out  of  the  firing  line,  but  R. 
made  him  go  back.  You  know  the  rest  of  the 
story — how  he  was  finally  carried  out  because  an 
unknown  voice  from  the  battlefield  said  :  "  Take 
that  one,  he  is  engaged  to  be  married."  In  the 
hospital,  where  there  were  seven  hundred  wounded 
and  only  three  nurses,  he  lay  for  six  days  without 
having  his  human  wants  attended  to,  and  you 
can  imagine  the  state  his  father  found  him  in. 

There  have  been  some  appealing  and  terribly 
funny  negroes  from  the  Soudan  in  the  hospital. 
It  took  four  men  to  hold  one  poor  fellow  in  bed 
whilst  his  dreadful  wounds  were  dressed.  Finally 
he  covered  each  wound  with  both  his  hands  and 
prayed  over  them,  and  when  his  prayer,  his  queer, 
uncouth  prayer  was  finished,  he  then  allowed  the 
doctor  to  dress  the  wound.  I  am  glad  to  say  that 

96 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  surgeon  was  patient  enough  to  spend  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  over  this  single  barbarian 
brought  from  so  far  to  suffer  so  much  in  the  land 
of  culture  and  civilisation. 

Devotedly  your  daughter, 

M. 


To  Miss  Anna  Lusk,  New  York. 

PARIS,  Nov.  7th,  1914. 

DEAREST  ANNA, 

In  the  contemplation  of  the  great  griefs 
of  those  who  have  lost  their  own,  of  those  who 
have  given  their  all ;  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
bravest  country  in  the  world — Belgium — ravaged 
from  frontier  to  frontier,  laid  barren  and  waste, 
smoked,  ruined,  devastated  and  scarred  by  whole- 
sale massacre  of  civilian  women  and  children, 
our  hearts  have  been  crushed.  Our  souls  have 
been  appalled  by  the  burdens  of  others,  and  by 
the  future  problems  of  Belgium,  not  to  speak  of 
one  quarter  of  France.  Much  of  the  north  has 
been  wiped  out,  and  the  stories  of  individual  suffer- 
ing and  insults  too  terrible  to  dwell  upon,  you 
will  say. 

One  of  my  old  clerks  in  the  Bon  Marche  ha« 
had  his  little  nephew  come  back  to  him  from 
Germany — a    peaceful   young    middle-class    man 
97  G 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

pursuing  his  studies  in  a  German  town — with  both 
his  hands  cut  off  ! 

The  other  day  in  the  Gare  du  Nord,  waiting 
for  a  train,  there  was  a  stunning  Belgian  officer 
— not  a  private — he  was  a  captain  hi  one  of  the 
crack  regiments.  His  excitement  was  terrible, 
he  was  almost  beside  himself  with  anguish  and 
with  anger.  In  a  little  village  he  had  seen  one 
woman  violated  by  seven  Germans  in  the  presence 
of  her  husband ;  then  the  husband  shot,  the 
woman  shot,  and  her  little  baby  cut  in  four 
pieces  on  a  butcher's  block.  You  can  hardly 
call  this  the  common  course  of  war.  He  was  a 
Belgian  gentleman,  and  I  should  consider  this  a 
document  of  truth. 

But  there  are  so  many  that  I  cannot  prolong, 
and  will  not — what  is  the  use  ?  Every  now  and 
then  a  people  needs  to  be  wiped  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  or  a  contingent  blotted  out  that  a  newer 
and  finer  civilisation  shall  prevail.  Certainly  this 
is  the  case  with  Germany.  They  say  here  that 
the  Emperor  and  Crown  Prince  will  be  tried  by 
law  and  sentenced  to  death  as  common  criminals, 
the  Emperor  as  a  murderer  and  the  Crown  Prince 
as  a  robber,  for  his  goods  trains  were  stacked  with 
booty  and  loot.  Think  of  it,  a  Prince  !  Every- 
where the  Germans  pass  they  leave  their  filthy 
insults  behind  them,  in  the  beautiful  chateaux  and 

98 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  the  delicate  rooms  of  the  French  women — the 
indications  of  their  passing,  not  deeds  of  noble 
heroism  that  can  be  told  of  foes  as  well  as  of 
friends,  but  filthy  souvenirs  of  the  passing  of 
creatures  for  whom  the  word  "  barbarian  "  is  too 
mild  ! 

Here  is  a  more  spiritual  picture. 

Robert  Le  Roux,  jun.,  was  buried  yesterday. 
You  will  have  read  in  the  previous  pages  here  the 
story  of  his  exploits  on  the  battlefield — the  closing 
of  his  young  life  in  bravely  leading  his  troops  up 
the  hill  to  certain  death.  And  yesterday  I  went 
to  St.  Germain  to  his  funeral. 

We  left  Paris  at  eight  o'clock  to  go  to  St. 
Germain,  which,  in  normal  times  takes  thirty-five 
minutes  ;  yesterday  it  took  us  two  hours  by  train. 

France  and  Paris  now  are  sacred.  Even  the 
station  of  St.  Lazare,  so  often  marked  with  partings 
for  America,  sunderings  and  farewells  on  one  side, 
and  then  happy  returns  after  months  of  work. 
St.  Lazare  station  has  for  me  a  particular  indi- 
viduality, and  you  know  they  call  that  big  stone 
waiting  room  there  the  "  Salle  des  pas  perdus," — 
"  The  room  of  lost  footsteps,"  and  for  ever  it  will 
mean  to  me  now  the  footsteps  of  those  soldiers 
who  have  gone  to  the  front  and  gone  on  further. 

We  knitted  in  the  train  our  woollen  comforters 
99 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

for  the  soldiers,  and  read  the  war  news  and  talked. 
The  last  time  I  had  seen  young  Robert  he  was  a 
little  boy,  in  short  breeches  and  socks.  His 
mother  brought  him  to  Versailles  and  he  played 
with  us  in  the  garden  there — a  strong,  splendid 
looking  young  French  boy.  Now  I  was  going  to 
his  funeral,  and  he  was  engaged  to  be  married, 
with  all  his  hopes  before  him,  and  on  this  same 
train  was  his  little  fiancee,  in  her  long  crepe  veil, 
broken-hearted ;  and  his  little  sister,  and  the  father, 
who  had  followed  his  son's  campaign  with  such 
ardour  and  such  tenderness  ;  and  his  uncle, 
Dr.  D.,  of  whom  I  spoke  previously — the  splendid 
sergeant-major  whose  only  son  had  just  been 
killed  by  the  enemy.  A  train  of  sorrow  ! — and 
only  one  of  so  many,  so  many. 

The  church  at  St.  Germain  is  simple  and  very 
old.  The  doors  were  all  hung  with  heavy  snow- 
white  cloth,  and  before  the  door  stood  the  funeral 
car  drawn  by  white  horses,  all  in  white,  and  instead 
of  melancholy  hearse  plumes  there  were  bunches 
of  flags,  and  over  all  hung  the  November  mist 
enveloping,  softening,  and  there  was  a  big  company 
of  Cuirassiers  guarding  the  road. 

We  went  in,  and  the  church  was  crowded  from 

the  nave  to  the  doors,  and  all  the  nave  and  the 

little  chapels  were  blazing  with  the  lily  lights  of 

the  candles.     It  was  all  so  white  and  so  pure,  so 

100 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN   WOMAN 

effulgent,  so  starry.  There  was  an  uplift  about  it, 
an  elan  ;  tragic  as  it  all  was,  there  was  ever  that 
feeling  of  beyond,  beyond  ! 

Before  the  altar  lay  the  young  man's  coffin — 
that  leaden  coffin  that  had  stood  by  his  father  in 
the  fortress  of  Toul  for  three  weeks,  waiting  for 
the  dead.  It  was  completely  covered  by  the 
French  flag,  and  the  candles  burnt  around  it. 

Beside  me  was  a  woman  with  her  husband. 
She  wept  so  bitterly  through  the  whole  service 
that  my  heart  was  just  wrung  for  her,  and  her 
husband's  face,  as  his  red-lidded  eyes  stared  out 
in  the  misty  church,  was  one  of  the  most  tragic 
things  I  ever  saw.  I  wept,  of  course,  and  I  have 
not  cried  very  much  since  the  war  broke  out,  but 
her  grief  was  too  much  for  me.  Finally  she  turned 
to  me  and  said  :  "  Madame,  I  only  had  one  son, 
he  was  so  charming,  so  good  ;  he  has  fallen  before 
the  enemy,  and  I  don't  know  where  he  is  buried  !  " 
Just  think  of  it !  There  she  was,  at  the  funeral 
of  another  man 's  son  because  he  was  a  soldier ! 
Link  upon  link  of  sorrow  and  suffering — such 
broken  hearts.  .  .  . 

The  whole  service  was  musical,  nothing  else 
but  violins  and  harps.  It  was  the  most  beautiful 
thing  I  ever  heard,  so  quiet  and  so  sweet ;  and 
that  little  group  touched  me  profoundly — Le 
Roux  with  his  daughter  and  the  little  fiancee- — 
101 


and  that  was  all.  In  that  coffin  lying  under  the 
flag  Bessie  had  placed  at  Toul  her  little  silk 
pillow  for  the  young  soldier's  head,  and  his  love- 
letters  in  a  little  packet  lay  by  his  side.  Around 
his  arm  he  had  worn  a  little  ribbon  taken  from 
the  hair  of  his  sweetheart,  and  at  the  very  last 
when  he  was  dying  and  the  hospital  nurse  was 
about  to  unknot  it — I  don't  know  why — the  boy 
put  up  his  feeble  hand  to  prevent  her ;  of  course 
they  buried  it  with  him,  and,  as  you  think  of  it, 
you  can  hear  that  unknown  voice  on  the  battle- 
field, that,  as  the  stretcher-bearers  came  to  look 
for  the  wounded,  called  out :  "  Take  him,  he  is 
engaged  to  be  married  ;  and  leave  me." 

Oh,  if  out  of  it  all  arise  a  better  civilisation, 
purer  motives,  less  greed  for  money,  more  humani- 
tarian and  unselfish  aims,  we  can  bear  it. 

I  think  of  America  with  an  ever-increasing  love  ; 
I  am  proud  to  belong  to  that  young  and  far-off 
country,  but  if  our  voice  is  raised  now  in  encourage- 
ment for  Belgium,  encouragement  for  the  Allies, 
and  in  reprobation  of  these  acts  of  dishonour- 
able warfare  and  cruel  barbarism,  I  shall  love  my 
country  more. 

How  superb  the  figure  of  the  Belgian  king  is, 
standing  there  among  the  remnant  of  his  army, 
and  surrounded  by  his  destroyed  and  ruined 
102 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

empire,  and  the  cries  of  the  people  in  his  ears — a 
sublime  figure.  When  the  war  is  over  I  hope  they 
will  make  him  king  of  France  and  Belgium  and 
Germany — that  would  be  a  fitting  reward.  He 
is  certainly  one  of  the  biggest  figures  in  history. 

Yours  as  ever, 

M. 


To  Mrs.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N.J. 

PARIS,  Oct.  1914. 

MY  DEAR  MARY, 

...  In  June  last,  driving  home  from 
the  Bois,  I  noticed  a  beautiful  building  in  process 
of  construction  at  Neuilly — a  very  good  example 
of  a  chateau  of  the  time  of  Francois  Premier,  pink 
bricks  and  white  filling,  turrets,  terraces,  etc.  I 
was  told  it  was  the  Lyce"e  Pasteur,  a  college  for 
boys,  supposedly  to  open  in  the  month  of  October 
to  receive  the  young  students.  Little  did  I  think 
what  a  different  aspect  the  place  would  wear 
when  I  should  see  it  again  on  the  day  when  I  drove 
up  to  offer  my  services  as  a  Red  Cross  nurse  ! 
All  along  the  front  now  were  the  ranged  khaki- 
coloured  motor  ambulances,  all  bearing  the  sign 
of  the  inevitable  Red  Cross  ;  private  ambulances 
too,  attached  to  the  hospital  for  service,  decorated 
with  the  flags  of  France  and  England  and  the  red 
103 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  white  flag  of  the  Red  Cross.  And  here  and 
there  across  the  courtyard  flitted  the  nurses  in 
their  snow-white  uniforms,  with  the  Red  Cross 
on  their  breast.  On  the  terraces  of  the  boys' 
school  were  grouped  the  invalid  and  convalescent 
soldiers  in  their  khaki-coloured  dressing-gowns, 
red  or  yellow  fezzes  on  the  heads  of  some  of  them, 
and  taking  care  of  them,  in  her  white  uniform  with 
the  Red  Cross  on  breast  and  coif,  their  nurse. 

I  went  into  the  entrance  of  the  hospital,  which 
was  full  of  animation  :  orderlies  in  their  white 
linen  uniforms,  and  the  little  boy  scouts,  young 
sons  of  gentlemen,  too  young  to  go  to  war  and 
whom  their  mothers  had  permitted  to  leave  school 
in  order  that  they  might  serve  their  country ; 
gallant  little  fellows,  working  day  and  night,  out 
in  the  rain  and  the  cold,  their  little  bare  knees 
reddened  and  chafed  with  exposure,  and  some  of 
them  wearing,  when  on  their  bicycles,  silk  and 
woollen  wristlets  knitted  over  here  by  the  American 
women. 

At  the  desks  were  groups  of  men  I  had  known 
in  the  world,  occupied  with  the  duties  of  the 
organisation.  I  sat  down  on  a  bench  to  wait 
and  waited  a  long  time  ;  and  just  here  I  want  to 
give  you  a  little  picture. 

We  used  to  see,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  for 
five  days  running,  a  tiny  little  French  child — 
104 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

poor  little  thing — a  mite  of  a  girl,  brought  by  her 
mother  and  seated  there  to  wait  while  the  mother 
went  upstairs,  day  after  day,  to  see  her  man  in 
the  wards.  He  was  hopelessly  wounded ;  there 
wasn't  a  stray  hope  for  him.  Whilst  he  was  there, 
he  was  decorated  with  the  Military  Medal  for  his 
services  on  the  field.  Little  did  the  child,  waiting 
there  day  after  day,  know  what  was  going  on 
upstairs  ;  and  we  were  so  struck  by  her  docility 
and  patience,  by  those  little  clasped  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  those  tiny  little  legs  so  high  above  the 
floor.  She  was  there  for  hours  whilst  her  mother 
spent  those  last  hours  of  life  with  her  husband. 
One  of  the  orderlies  went  up  to  the  little  girl  and 
said  to  her,  just  for  something  to  say  :  "  What 
do  you  think  of  the  hospital  ?  "  And  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  sweet  smile  and  answered  (in 
French,  of  course)  :  "I  think  it  is  a  very  nice 
place,  only  there  aren't  any  dolls  here."  That 
was  what  the  little  thing  was  thinking  about,  and 
you  can  imagine  that  the  next  day  when  she  came 
to  wait,  she  didn't  make  the  same  complaint,  for 
beside  her  sat  the  biggest  and  handsomest  doll 
that  the  orderly  could  find.  And  so  she  waited 
whilst  her  father  "  passed  on "  and  her  little 
heart  was  comforted  as  she  unconsciously  kept 
watch  with  her  mother. 

I  became  impatient  at  waiting  so  long.     The 
105 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

excitement  was  tense  and  very  keen,  and  I  couldn't 
put  up  then  with  formalities  ;  so  without  asking 
any  further  questions,  I  pushed  the  door  open  and 
went  myself  in  search  of  Mrs.  Vanderbilt,  and, 
for  the  first  time,  on  the  other  side  of  that  door, 
I  felt  I  was  part  of  a  hospital.  I  found  Mrs. 
Vanderbilt  standing  at  the  door  of  the  operating- 
room.  In  my  blue  uniform  with  brass  buttons 
and  the  Badge  of  the  Red  Cross  (of  a  private 
detachment),  I  looked  what  I  was  not — useful 
and  competent — and  why  she  ever  took  me  I  fail 
to  know.  Some  time  I  shall  ask  her  !  She  must 
have  felt  my  enthusiasm  and  intense  interest,  but 
I  think  the  real  reason  that  I  was  accepted  was 
that  there  were  not  enough  nurses  to  care  for  the 
wounded  who  were  being  brought  in. 

I  have  always  wanted  to  know  Mrs.  Vanderbilt. 
The  first  thing  I  ever  heard  about  her  was  that 
she  was  doing  good.  It  impressed  me  in  a  vague 
way.  And  then  I  heard  again  that  she  was  doing 
more  and  greater  good  ;  until  finally  she  grew  to 
stand  for  me  as  some  one  constantly  doing  good 
everywhere — a  most  enviable  reputation  !  I  grew 
to  think  of  her,  not  as  a  figure  of  a  society  woman. 
I  forgot  her  vast  wealth  and  her  position,  and  I 
thought  of  her  only  as  a  great  human  heart,  as  a 
woman  of  broad  and  generous  sympathies,  oc- 
cupied with  the  sufferings  of  others  and  giving 

106 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

herself  to  humanity.  I  used  to  ask  about  her 
from  others  who  knew  her  whenever  I  had  the 
opportunity ;  but  I  must  confess  that  I  hardly 
expected  ever  intimately  to  cross  her  path. 

When  I  pushed  open  that  door  at  the  American 
Ambulance  and  went  in  and  found  myself  actually 
standing  before  Mrs.  Vanderbilt,  without  any 
introduction,  I  did  not  realise  even  then  that  a 
long-looked-for  moment  had  come.  Even  in  that 
moment,  I  forgot  who  she  was,  eager  in  my  desire 
to  become  sensibly  part  of  that  great  machine, 
the  American  Ambulance ;  and  I  forgot  that  the 
quiet,  dignified  woman  in  her  nurse's  dress  was 
the  great  and  celebrated  Mrs.  Vanderbilt.  I 
think  that  in  a  moment,  however,  a  sympathy 
was  established  between  us.  I  hope  so  and  I 
believe  it.  I  told  her  that  I  had  made  some 
studies  in  Red  Cross  work  and  that  I  wanted  to 
join  the  auxiliaries  here.  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  was 
president  of  the  auxiliaries  and  had  the  whole 
corps  under  her  charge.  I  did  not  know  this, 
but  was  so  fortunate  as  to  come  immediately  to 
the  right  source,  and,  as  I  said  before,  she  took 
me  immediately. 

At  first  I  was  put  in  the  bandage-room,  but 

very  shortly  Mrs  Vanderbilt  transferred  me  to 

the  gangrene  ward.    As  I  went  into  that  ward 

and  shut  the  door  behind  me,  my  heart  would  have 

107 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

sunk  if  it  had  had  time,  but  it  never  did.  The 
odour  seemed  a  conglomeration  of  every  foul  and 
evil  thing — penetrating,  dank  ;  and  from  then  on 
that  terrible  odour  seemed  to  penetrate  to  my 
very  bones,  and  when  I  went  out  into  the  streets  of 
Paris  I  wondered  what  had  happened  to  the  city. 
When  I  got  home  I  dropped  my  garments  in  an 
anteroom.  Fancy  living  in  that,  day  after  day, 
as  those  nurses  do  ;  and  you  never  get  used  to  it 
— never  !  Into  that  ward  were  put  all  the  worst 
cases  of  gangrene,  and  when  I  went  in  there  were 
seven  men  hi  those  beds  all  infected,  terribly 
infected  ;  and  the  only  hope  was  to  save  as  many 
as  could  be  saved  from  putrefaction  and  death  ; 
and  that  is  what  the  American  Ambulance  is 
doing. 

My  first  thought  was  that  the  things  were  not 
properly  cleansed,  and  I  said  to  the  head  nurse, 
who  barely  had  time  to  give  me  a  nod  and  greet 
me  :  "  May  I  burn  something  here  ?  "  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  her  look  at  me — not  unkindly. 
"  Why,  yes  ;  you  can  burn  anything  you  like." 
You  will  hardly  believe  it,  but  I  burned  some 
paper  !  I  heard  one  nurse  say  to  another  :  "  She 
doesn't  know  what  it  is,"  and  then  they  went  on 
with  their  duties.  The  work  never  stopped  in 
the  gangrene  ward — never. 

\Vhen  finally  they  took  me  from  the  gangrene 
108 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

ward,  I  was  loth  to  go — I  didn't  want  to  leave  it, 
I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  stay.  It  doesn't  seem 
possible,  does  it  ? 

Well,  I  worked  during  that  first  day,  perform- 
ing the  services  asked  of  me,  and  I  found  out  what 
distances  and  what  real  fatigue  meant.  (One  day 
I  borrowed  a  pedometer,  and  found  that  I  had 
walked  twelve  miles  that  day,  besides  attending 
to  my  various  duties.)  It  was  nearly  six  o'clock 
and  I  hadn't  seen  a  single  wound,  and  what  I  was 
going  to  do  when  I  did,  I  didn't  want  to  think. 
One  of  the  chief  surgeons  came  in  to  attend  to  the 
dressings.  We  were  the  last  on  his  list :  we  had 
to  be — we  were  so  infected  and  undesirable. 
Nothing  could  be  done  after  us — we  were  the 
limit.  So  the  poor  surgeon,  after  attending  to 
all  his  other  duties  and  performing  his  operations, 
came  in  here  to  our  poor  men.  .  .  . 

From  the  gangrene  ward  to  Miss  Curphey's 
ward  was  transposition  into  paradise.  Here  is  the 
smart,  chic  ward  of  the  hospital  and  there  are 
eight  officers  in  it.  I  left  my  obnoxious  men  with 
great  regret.  And  I  am  afraid  Miss  C.  didn't 
want  to  have  me !  She  thought  me  only  an 
auxiliary  of  no  use ;  but  when  she  found  I  was 
serious  and  determined  and  had  no  thought  but 
to  serve  her,  we  became  great  friends  and  I  can 
never  forget  what  she  has  taught  me.  She  js 
109 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

charming  and  pretty  and  one  of  the  best  nurses  in 
the  hospital. 

I  want  to  tell  you  of  the  picturesqueness  and 
interest  of  the  first  room  from  the  receiving  hall 
where,  direct  from  the  trenches  the  men  are 
carried  in  from  the  motors — a  long  line  of  stretchers 
with  their  pitiful  burdens,  the  men  svith  their 
wounds  dressed  on  the  field,  men  who  have  not 
had  their  boots  off,  or  their  clothes,  for  three  weeks, 
some  of  them  with  grey,  strange  faces — such 
anxious  looks,  such  pallor !  And  those  dreadful 
dressings  that  have  been  on  for  days.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  courage  it  took  to  take  the  safety- 
pins  out  of  a  gangrened  wound  for  the  first  time  : 
it  wasn't  pleasant. 

Miss  Curphey's  ward  is  full  of  beautiful  flowers 
and  beautiful  fruits.  There  are  no  disagreeable 
smells  there.  It  is  as  fresh  as  a  daisy.  And  out 
of  the  windows  we  can  see  the  roofs  of  several 
houses  and  the  waving  trees  and  the  church, 
whose  bell  tolls  constantly — every  day  for  too 
many  hours — although  the  mortality  is  not  great. 

It  is  wonderful  to  find  how  completely  you  can 
forget  yourself  in  this  hospital,  and  how  every 
thought  of  personal  disinclination  disappears  before 
the  needed  service.  But  it  is  hard  work.  When 
I  go  home  at  night,  I  feel  like  the  little  boy  whose 
mother  made  his  trousers  and  he  said  he  didn't 
no 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

know  whether  he  was  coming  or  going.  I  can 
scarcely  move  from  fatigue.  At  the  end  of  the 
day,  an  extra  demand  is  sometimes  almost  more 
than  flesh  and  blood  can  bear.  The  other  day  I 
had  just  served  the  eight  men  their  suppers  and 
was  going  home — blissful  words  ! — when  Captain 
K.,  who  is  a  regular  spoilt  darling,  sat  up  in  bed 
and  called  to  me  as  I  was  slipping  through  the 
door  :  "  Oh,  I  say,  nurse,  do  you  think  I  could 
have  a  little  jam  ?  "  Now  that  doesn't  sound 
like  anything  to  you,  does  it  ?  but  it  meant  about 
four  minutes'  walk  over  those  stone  floors,  up  and 
down  stairs.  It  was  a  tragedy  to  me.  Of  course 
I  started  off  for  the  jam,  and  when  I  brought  it 
back  encountered  my  superior,  Miss  C.,  who  gave 
me  an  icy  glance  and  said  :  "  You  had  no  right 
to  go  and  get  jam  without  permission."  And 
that  doesn't  sound  much,  but  a  reproof  from  a 
superior  nurse  is  a  very  serious  thing ;  it  hurts 
and  upsets  you  horribly,  and  you  wish  you  were 
dead,  and  that  you  had  never  worked  in  an  hospital, 
and  all  sorts  of  foolish  things  ;  and  you  blush  and 
want  to  throw  the  jam  at  the  soldier's  head,  even 
though  he  is  a  magnificent  military  man.  But 
here  is  the  point  of  the  story.  The  captain,  who 
was  frightfully  wounded  and  had  shown  the 
courage  of  a  lion,  heard  it.  He  could  stand  before 
the  German  guns,  but  he  couldn't  face  his  head 
ill 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

nurse's  displeasure.  I,  anxious  as  to  the  result, 
answered  :  "Of  course  I  got  it,  Miss  C.,  because 

Captain    K.   wanted    it    and "      What    was 

my  horror  to  hear  him  say  :  "  Oh  no,  I  didn't — 
I  never  asked  for  anything  of  the  sort !  "  He 
couldn't  face  Miss  C.  !  The  next  day,  out  of  the 
hour,  I  laughed  at  it  and  told  her  about  it.  I 
said  :  "I  was  really  too  furious  for  anything 
when  that  Englishman  asked  for  jam."  And  she 
looked  at  me  reproachfully  and  said  :  "  Remember, 
he  is  one  of  our  wounded  heroes."  And  of  course 
I  did.  He  has  jam  every  night  now.  .  .  . 

All  the  northern  part  of  France  is  devastated 
and  in  ruins.  Twenty-one  departments  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  invaders.  Famous  industries, 
whose  beauty  and  grace  and  utility  you  have 
loved  and  proved,  are  no  more.  There  is  no  more 
linen,  no  more  beautiful  glass,  no  more  wool. 
The  new  and  the  ancient  patterns,  the  exquisite 
moulds,  are  all  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
These  are  some  of  the  material  disasters.  .  .  . 
Of  the  industrious,  peace-loving  inhabitants,  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  are  captives,  hundreds  and 
thousands  are  utterly  homeless,  destitute,  hungry 
and  unclothed. 


112 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Miss  B.  Andrews,  N.Y. 

EDGWARE,  Oct.  22nd,  1914. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

Thank  you  so  much  for  your  letter,  so 
unique  that  I  shall  put  it  under  glass — the  first 
one  received  for  too  long  to  count ! 

I  returned  here  last  night  after  a  three  weeks' 
absence,  to  find  London  celebrating  Trafalgar 
Day,  the  city  gay  and  everything  going  strong 
— even  the  Russian  Ballet.  The  recruiting  is 
going  well,  so  one  can't  blame  the  spirit  of  the 
times  which  keeps  its  temper  up,  and  after  all, 
it  is  no  doubt  better  to  be  normal  as  long  as 
possible.  But  coming  to  England,  as  I  did,  from 
sights  that  England  could  not  wish  to  see,  from 
the  bedside  of  men  that  England  loves  and 
honours,  I  could  not  help  but  feel  the  great  pathos 
of  it.  Even  the  white  and  crimson  flag  in  flowers, 
as  it  lay  across  the  iron  flank  of  the  big  lion  at. 
the  base  of  Nelson's  monument,  was  like  the  red 
cross  on  the  snowy  hospital  sheet — lilies  and  blood. 
And  if  it  is  all  glorious,  as  indeed  it  is,  Death  is 
so  irreparably  over  it  all  that  high-hearted  courage 
is  sometimes  apt  to  fail. 

I  came  out  here  to  little  Edgware,  at  n  o'clock 
at  night,  through  streets  scarcely  lighted,  where 
tramways    and    omnibuses    are    illuminated    by 
113  H 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

muted  lamps  and  ghastly  blue  lights,  where  the 
road  is  scarcely  safe  to  travel  for  its  forced 
darkness,  and  all  along  the  wayside  the  little 
cottage  windows,  with  their  deepest  lights,  seemed 
to  call  the  sons  home  again — and  so  vainly  !  And 
before  my  eyes  as  it  will  often  come,  I  saw  the 
face  of  Charlie  Hern  as  he  lay  in  Ward  69.  It 
was  one  of  his  good  days  ;  the  ghastly  colour  had 
not  yet  spread  into  his  cheeks  ;  and  in  his  dialect, 
hard  for  me  to  understand,  he  kept  repeating  the 
name  of  his  home — "  Mountain  Ash  ;  "  and  you'd 
scarcely  have  known  the  word  it  sounded  so 
strange  in  his  country  tongue.  He'd  written  to 
them,  but  he  hadn't  heard.  Would  I  write  ? 
And  I  promised.  And  the  next  time  I  saw  him 
was  down  in  the  operating-room,  when  they 
wheeled  him  in  and  he  was  too  infected  and 
dangerous  for  me  to  dare  to  approach,  standing 
as  I  was  by  my  sound,  healthy  Guernsey  boy. 
Individual  cases,  if  you  like  ;  but  I  thank  Heaven, 
that  I  can  feel  their  appeal.  Women  make  better 
nurses  who  do.  You  needn't  be  a  sickly  senti- 
mentalist ;  they're  no  good ;  but  unless  the 
human  heart  remains  deep  and  its  expression 
free,  the  world  isn't  worth  living  in.  Arras, 
Rheims,  and  the  beauties  that  have  gone  out 
for  ever  would  have  been  spared  by  a  race  where 
there  was  less  science  and  more  heart. 
114 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

It's  all  very  well  to  laugh  at  amateur  nurses, 
and  if  you  will  recall  one  of  my  letters,  written 
in  London  during  the  times  of  my  Red  Cross 
examinations,  you  will  see  that  I  laughed  first 
and  with  you.  But  that  is  all  changed.  The 
auxiliaries  and  the  amateurs  at  the  American 
Ambulance  have  done  perfectly  marvellous  work. 
Those  ladies  gifted  first  with  intelligence  and 
tenderness,  common  sense  and  dignity,  are  now 
difficult  to  distinguish — some  of  them — from  the 
professionals ;  and  even  as  far  as  the  battle  line, 
lying  so  red  and  so  trampled  in  Belgium,  they 
have  done  superb  work. 

I  crossed  this  time  with  the  wife  of  an  Irish 
major  in  one  of  the  big  regiments.  She  had 
come  from  the  Astoria  Hotel,  where  her  husband 
was  lying  wounded.  She  said  to  me :  "  My 
husband  asked  to  have  the  two  French  lady 
auxiliaries  to  take  care  of  him — two  charming 
Frenchwomen,  kind  and  gentle  beyond  words — 
because  the  English  trained  nurses  were  so  anxious 
to  be  out  at  the  front  and  in  the  trenches,  that 
they  couldn't  give  him  the  care  he  needed."  At 
the  Astoria  were  two  nurses  who  had  come  in 
from  the  battle  of  the  Aisne — one  of  them  with 
her  arm  blown  off  and  the  other  with  both  legs 
injured  for  life.  This  lady  on  the  boat  had  seen 
and  talked  to  both -these  women,  and  they  told 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

her  that  the  Germans  had  systematically  shelled 
the  Red  Cross  hospitals  where  they  worked,  and 
nearly  all  the  wounded  soldiers  were  killed. 

Of  course  there  is  a  great  deal  of  inefficient 
help  offered,  that  goes  without  saying ;  but  it  is 
quickly  weeded  out  and  cast  away,  as  nothing 
but  an  iron  constitution  and  real  devotion  could 
stand  the  strain. 

My  Guernsey  boy  got  well  fast.  That  is  the 
happy  note  in  it  all — when  they  get  well  fast  and 
go  home.  And  I  assure  you  it  was  a  picturesque 
thing  to  see  him  sitting  there  by  the  bedside, 
my  dear,  getting  into  those  colossal  boots  and  into 
his  khaki  clothes  that  had  been  stripped  off  the 
night  he  came.  He  was  big  and  tall  and  the 
convalescence  had  done  him  good,  and  he  went 
off  weak  but  happy  to  Guernsey — to  the  fruits 
and  flowers  and  the  sea  air — for  a  month,  and 
then  back  again. 

After  leaving  my  French  lieutenant  for  two 
weeks  whilst  they  operated  on  more  important 
people,  they  finally  decided  to  get  the  ball  out  of 
him,  and  I  decided  that  I  was  going  to  see  it 
done — not  for  curiosity — there's  plenty  to  satisfy 
that  in  these  wards ! — but  because  he  was  a  sensitive 
boy,  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  and  I  determined 
that  I  would  not  leave  him,  and  I  told  him  so.  I 
must  confess  that  it  seemed  to  help  the  thing 
116 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

along  to  know  that  he  was  going  to  be  taken  down 
from  his  bed  and  brought  back  there  by  his  own 
nurse.  We  stood  with  him  in  the  ante-chamber 
of  the  operating-room  from  one  to  four,  on  our 
feet,  the  orderly  and  I,  I  mean.  Quite  a  time, 
hey  ?  Do  you  know,  it  was  quite  a  fortunate 
wait.  The  lieutenant  got  over  his  nervous  strain, 
and  I  warmed  his  feet  and  hands  ;  and  by  the 
time  they  came  round  for  us,  we  were  laughing 
and  talking  about  all  kinds  of  things.  So  we  went 
in.  This  was  my  second  operation,  and  a  very 
mild  one,  for  the  ball  was  only  under  one  of  the 
ribs  and  involved  simply  an  opening  of  the  shoulder 
and  extraction.  Dr.  Dubouchet  is  a  perfect  marvel. 
I  suppose  you  can't  easily  beat  him,  even  by  Blake. 
He  is  the  president  of  the  hospital,  and  went 
through  the  Russo-Japanese  War  and  the  Abys- 
sinian massacres,  and  is  altogether  a  very  charming 
person.  Dr.  Dubouchet,  when  he  had  fished  out 
the  ball,  took  it  with  his  fingers  right  out  of  the 
wound  and  threw  it  across  the  floor,  all  covered 
as  it  was  with  blood,  and  I  picked  it  up  and  had  it 
washed.  The  first  thing  that  the  boy  said  when 
he  came  to  his  senses  was  :  "  Show  me  the  ball." 
And  I  had  it  there  for  him,  wrapped  up  in  a  little 
bit  of  cloth.  He  had  a  temperature  and  looked 
so  blond,  and  so  appealing,  in  his  poor  little  hos- 
pital jacket,  so  at  the  mercy  of  these  contending 
117 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN  \ 

forces,  such  a  light  bit  of  humanity  to  stand 
against  the  battle  fire.  And  he  kept  on  saying  : 
"  H  faut  etre  vainqueurs  !  Dites-moi  que  nous 
sommes  vainqueurs  !  Qu'importe  si  moi  je 
meurs,  si  les  nouvelles  sont  bonnes  ?  "  It  hap- 
pened that  the  news  was  bad,  but  I  assured  him 
to  the  contrary,  and  stayed  there  far  beyond  my 
time  until  he  was  somewhat  soothed. 

Don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  am  going  to 
describe  at  length  all  the  hospital  cases,  repeating 
myself  ad  infimtum ;  but  these  are  just  little 
thumb  notes  of  the  war  of  1914,  and  may  be  of 
interest  some  day. 

The  little  flat  on  the  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon 
had  many  pretty  pictures  in  it,  some  of  those  last 
evenings  before  I  left,  I  assure  you.  I  wish  that 
you  could  have  brushed  aside  the  veil  of  distance 
and  have  looked  in  on  my  little  study,  untouched 
and  unchanged,  for  I  have  never  put  anything 
away  in  it.  It  is  just  as  it  was,  excepting  that 
the  big  war  map  covers  the  wall  and  the  flags 
flutter  outside  the  window.  There  was  a  bright 
fire  on  the  hearth — you  know  its  changing  colours, 
its  lilac  and  its  ruby  flames.  And  there  on  the 
sofa  was  Madelon  Hancock,  in  her  dark  blue  and 
white  dress,  with  the  Red  Cross  on  her  breast  ; 
and  sweet  little  nurse  Wells,  in  the  lilac  and  white 
of  the  London  Hospital,  with  the  fluttering  folds 
118 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

of  the  veil-cap  on  her  head  ;  and  I  wore  the  white 
of  the  American  Ambulance.  We  were  smoking, 
of  course,  and  talking,  and  the  two  of  them  had 
just  come  from  Antwerp,  where  they  had  been 
from  the  beginning  in  the  British  Field  Hospital. 
Theirs  are  tales  that  make  mine  absolutely  pale. 
When  the  Germans  came  within  range  they 
destroyed  the  aqueducts,  and  these  nurses,  with 
their  170  patients,  were  almost  without  water. 
Just  think  what  that  means  in  a  hospital !  The 
little  they  used  had  to  be  carried  from  distant 
wells.  Madelon  and  the  chief  doctor  together 
dug  a  cesspool  for  the  refuse  in  the  garden,  and 
as  they  dug  the  shells  flew  about  them,  the  bullets 
snipping  the  leaves  from  the  trees ;  and  they 
were  such  veterans  by  then  and  so  hardened  that 
they  laughed  even  over  their  putrid  work. 
These  two  women,  with  the  other  nurses,  evacuated 
the  hospital,  packing  those  miserable,  mutilated 
bodies  like  sardines  in  the  omnibuses  which  a 
few  weeks  before  had  been  rolling  around  with 
the  travelling  public  in  London.  And  Madelon 
and  Miss  Wells  were  fifteen  hours  travelling 
through  the  day  and  night  with  their  poor  suffer- 
ing load — the  bandages  soaked  and  soaked  again  ; 
the  dangling  limbs,  just  amputated,  some  of  them, 
and  scarcely  dressed.  Think  of  it — all  the  courage 
and  fortitude  demanded  of  these  women,  and  the 
119 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

nerve  !  They  were  obliged  to  make  detours  to 
escape  the  live  electric  wires  placed  by  the  Ger- 
mans across  the  road.  Their  last  omnibus  had 
scarcely  left  the  pontoon  bridge  across  the  Scheldt, 
when  it  was  blown  up  behind  them.  Through  the 
noise  of  war,  with  the  wounded  in  the  buses, 
groaning  and  crying  out,  themselves  wet  nearly 
to  the  bone  and  icy  cold,  they  drove  to  Ghent, 
placed  their  charges  in  safety  there,  only  to  be 
told  to  evacuate  again.  On  to  Ostend — on  to  the 
boats  for  England.  Out  of  the  170,  only  three 
died  on  the  way,  and  these  girls,  with  a  few  others, 
brought  their  hurt  children  safely  into  port. 
There  were,  these  sane  and  normal  women  found, 
humorous  sights  even  in  this  horror.  On  the 
boat,  they  had  scarcely  lain  down  to  snatch  a 
moment's  rest  when  they  were  called  to  a  cabin 
where  a  woman  refugee  was  in  labour !  Miss 
Wells  is,  of  course,  a  regular  nurse,  but  Madelon 
knows  little  more  about  the  birth  of  children  than 
you  do.  Yet  the  baby  was  born  and  Madelon 
received  it,  washed  it  in  a  steamboat  cuspedor, 
holding  it  between  her  knees  and  powdered  it 
with  Colgate's  tooth  powder.  Miss  Wells  says 
that  she  will  never  forget  it  as  long  as  she  lives— 
that  morsel  of  humanity,  holding  with  its  tiny 
little  hands  on  to  the  edges  of  the  cuspedor. 

I  think  you  can  imagine  that,  although  the 
120 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

waiting  list  at  the  American  Ambulance  is  enor- 
mous, Madelon  and  Nurse  Wells  were  taken  on 
immediately.  I  have  now  three  nurses  there 
belonging  to  my  section  of  the  Entente  Cordiale. 
Mrs.  Vanderbilt  has  joined  and  I  am  going  to 
ask  Dr.  Dubouchet  to  join  as  well. 

I  am  awfully  sorry  that  the  little  bird  is  dead, 
but  I  am  glad  it  was  the  lady  bird.  They  can  be 
spared  better  now  than  the  boy  birds  !  And  I 
suppose  that  this  one  has  now  fulfilled  all  his 
promise  and  is  sporting  a  long  plume. 

Of  course,  I  am  sure  that  you  all  think  of  us. 
One  knows  that.  But  you  can  form  no  possible 
conception  of  the  atmospheric  and  psychological 
state  of  things,  and  how  difficult  it  is  to  form  an 
opinion  of  the  value  of  anything  when  one  is  in 
the  midst  of  it. 

I  didn't  care  at  all  about  the  Times  clipping. 
They  always  treat  me  perfectly  rottenly.  They've 
never  given  me  a  good  criticism.  I  never  read 
book  criticisms  or  subscribe  to  them  any  way. 
George  Eliot  always  said  that  the  ones  that 
praised  her  she  didn't  believe,  and  the  ones  that 
criticised  her  made  her  mad  ;  and  I  feel  the  same 
way. 

Here  in  London  all  the  shops  are  open  and  the 
fabric  gloves  in  the  Burlington  Arcade  will  soon 
be  no  more.  The  fabric  was  made  in  Germany 

121 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  put  up  here,  and  is  now  exhausted.  The 
man  has  laid  aside  all  his  remaining  stock  of  your 
size — a  couple  of  dozen  pairs — and  if  you  want 
them,  will  you  write  to  him  direct  ?  as  there  won't 
be  any  more,  and  the  price  has  not  gone  up,  for 
a  wonder. 

In  Paris  everything  is  opening  slowly,  although 
there  is  no  trade  whatsoever,  and  no  one  would 
want  to  dress  and  go  about  like  a  jay  when  every 
second  person  you  see  is  in  mourning. 

The  German  losses  amount  now  to  nearly 
800,000,  the  French  probably  to  500,000,  and  these 
figures  were  given  some  time  ago. 

Dresses  are  very  short,  up  to  the  tops  of  the 
boots,  and  the  whole  style  military ;  and  gaiters 
are  worn — long  gaiters,  which  would  please  you, 
only  there's  no  one  to  wear  them,  as  I  said. 

Creed  is  closed  as  tight  as  a  drum.  All  the 
boys  are  at  the  front,  in  different  armies.  Paquin 
is  open,  and  the  dear  old  Hotel  du  Rhin  is  just 
exactly  as  it  always  has  been,  excepting  that  it  is 
closed  and  Hoffmann  a  mystery.  Nobody  knows. 
I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  know  what  became  of 
him  ? 

I  have  had  two  offers  to  go  to  the  front. 

It  must  be  too  much  fun  to  have  Bunny  with 
you — darling  little  boy  !  And  who  keeps  the 
geraniums  blooming  in  the  window  boxes  ?  I 
122 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

am  deeply  interested  in  all  the  things  you  do  over 
there,  and  it  is  a  great  rest  to  read  about  them. 
That's  all  for  the  present. 

Yours  with  all  my  heart, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

PARIS,  Nov.  nth,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  something  of 
Glory  Hancock.  She  made  a  wonderful  record  for 
herself  at  the  American  Ambulance,  where  they 
loved  her,  from  the  humblest  to  the  highest. 
The  patients  simply  adored  her.  With  her  dark 
blue  field  ambulance  dress  and  her  splendid  car- 
riage, she  was  a  fine,  impressive  figure.  Heaven 
knows  she  had  enough  to  do  in  her  ward  of  forty 
men — a  terrible  amount — and  if  she  had  not  been 
so  restless  she  could  have  stayed  on  and  been 
invaluable  to  the  end.  Her  little  friend,  Miss 
Wells  of  the  London  Hospital,  is  a  perfect  nurse, 
and  they  made  a  fine  running  team.  Imagine 
what  a  void  they  left !  And  now  they  are  back 
at  the  front — "  Somewhere  in  Flanders  !  " 

Oh,  it's  a  great  time,  my  dear,  if  you  are  work- 
ing in  it.     I  had  really  hoped  that  yesterday  would 
be  my  last  day  at  the  hospital,  because  lam  aching 
to  write  ;  but  I  absolutely  hadn't  the  courage  to 
123 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

tell  them  when  I  went  up  yesterday  that  I  wouldn't 
come  again.  There's  no  one  to  take  my  place  in 
two  wards  on  the  third  floor,  and  until  there  is  I 
simply  must  go  on.  So  I  have  girded  up  my  loins 
and  I  feel  a  little  more  rested  to-day  and  shall 
return  for  a  few  days  at  least.  On  Monday  I 
think  there  will  be  three  auxiliaries. 

In  my  ward  I  have  three  men  from  Tunis  and 
one  of  them  has  two  frightful  wounds — they 
beggar  description.  Yesterday  I  kept  covering 
his -eyes  with  my  hands  all  the  time  they  were 
dressing  them,  as  he  tried  to  peer  round  like  a 
poor  little  monkey.  His  bod}7  is  chocolate  colour, 
and  on  the  skin,  soft  as  silk,  his  great,  terrible 
open-mouthed  wounds  make  a  strange  effect.  I 
guess  he  thought  so  too,  poor  dear  !  When  the 
doctors  came  to  dress  them,  he  had  to  be  held  in 
order  to  keep  him  from  grabbing  the  doctor. 
Every  now  and  then  during  the  dressings  he 
would  kiss  my  hands.  Of  course  you  can't  get 
sentimental !  With  seven  men  to  attend  to,  you 
don't  shed  tears  over  one  poor  little  nigger  from 
Tunis  ;  but  your  heart's  stirred  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

Paris  is  growing  normal.  Shops  are  opening. 
Everything  promises  a  loosening  of  the  tension. 
I  have  filled  my  cellar  with  coal  and  wood,  as 
they  say  the  supply  is  going  to  lack.  As  for  my 
own  plans,  they  are  just  now  more  than  sketchy. 
124 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  want  to  go  to  Rome  and  to  America,  and  I 
will  let  you  know  definitely  which  I  am  going 
to  do  when  I  know  myself. 

I  hope  you  will  like  the  little  book  of  poems.  I 
have  paid  for  them  on  this  side,  so  anything  you 
sell  them  for  will  be  clear  profit  and  just  send 
the  money  to  whatever  Belgian  fund  you  are 
interested  in. 

Thank  you  for  offering  to  send  the  nurse.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  do ! 

Last  night,  at  the  end  of  the  hospital  day,  I 
brought  down  with  me  in  a  tiny  motor  belonging 
to  Vera  Arkwright  the  head  nurse  of  the  hospital, 
Miss  Devereux,  who  has  charge  of  the  American 
Hospital  in  times  of  peace.  She  was  so  exhausted 
and  worn  out  with  the  terrible  day  that  she 
could  hardly  speak.  The  fresh  air  and  the  drive 
down  began  to  rest  her,  and  when  she  got  here  in 
my  little  study,  before  the  fire,  so  quiet  and  so 
sweet,  with  a  good  little  dinner,  and  with  Bessie's 
society  and  mine  to  cheer  her,  she  bloomed  out 
like  a  flower.  She  is  a  New  York  hospital  nurse, 
and  gave  me  another  picture  to  remember  in  the 
little  study,  under  the  war  map,  all  in  snow  white, 
with  no  cap,  and  just  the  gold  medal  of  the  New 
York  hospital  round  her  neck.  Such  a  fine 
spiritual  face ;  such  a  strong,  dignified  woman  ! 
We  didn't  talk  much  of  the  hospital,  but  we  talked, 
125 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

all  three  of  us,  of  spiritual  things,  and  it  was  a 
wonderful  thing  to  find  her  one  of  those  simple 
Christians,  full  of  the  very  light  of  God,  strong  in 
the  best  sense  of  the  word,  living  by  faith.  I 
don't  think  I  have  enjoyed  any  evening  half  so 
much  for  a  long  time.  I  am  sure  that  you  will 
respond  to  this  note  and  care  too.  It  is  fine  to 
feel  that  the  hospital  there  is  under  the  spell 
of  this  noble  woman  who  "  believes  in  fairies," 
as  Barrie's  play  says — who  believes  in  miracles. 
There  wasn't  a  discordant  second  in  the  long 
evening  and  she  went  back  with  pink  cheeks 
and  bright  eyes  to  those  wards  where  three  were 
to  die  that  night  and  she  had  to  go  on  her  noble 
watch.  She  spoke  in  an  especially  kindly  way 
of  the  auxiliaries  and  of  their  extraordinary 
powers  of  endurance.  She  said  that  she  would 
not  have  believed  that  women  of  the  world 
unused  to  discipline  or  to  concentrated  effort, 
could  have  been  what  these  women  have  been 
at  the  Ambulance.  Vera  Arkwright,  for  instance, 
has  not  missed  a  single  day  since  she  went  there. 

The  dressing  carts  are  so  picturesque.  You 
see,  I  naturally  see  the  notes  of  colour  that  things 
make — I  can't  help  it — and  when  I  went  out  from 
the  hospital,  Vera  stood  there  in  her  blue  dress, 
with  her  tiny  little  cap  on  her  head — she  is  fault- 
lessly beautiful,  and  very  celebrated  for  her  looks 
126 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

— and  all  around  her  was  a  pile  of  the  most  dreadful 
bandages  you  ever  saw.  (I  won't  describe  them.) 
She  was  gathering  them  up  to  destroy  them  and 
to  prepare  her  cart  for  the  next  trip.  Both  she 
and  Madelon  are  able  to  do  their  dressings  them- 
selves. 

I  am  mailing  this  week  a  letter  to  the  New 
York  Times,  making  an  appeal  for  the  American 
Ambulance.  It  is  a  poor  letter — couldn't  be 
worse — but  still,  it  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  write. 
I  hope  you'll  see  it  and  speak  to  people,  though 
I  know  you  hate  to  ask  for  donations  of  any  kind. 
Ever  devotedly  yours, 

M.  V. 

To  Mr.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  N.Y. 

Nov.  aoth,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 

I  wonder,  as  I  sit  here,  in  one  of 
those  rare,  quiet  moments  that  fall  in  a  nurse's 
day,  whilst  I  am  preparing  my  charts,  what  they 
are  thinking  of  in  this  silent  room. 

This  group  is  singularly  silent.  They  do  not  talk 
from  bed  to  bed,  as  some  of  the  more  loquacious 
do.  Directly  opposite  is  one  of  those  fragile  bits  of 
humanity  that  the  violent  wind  of  war  has  blown, 
like  an  unresisting  leaf,  into  the  vortex.  Monsieur 
Gilet  is  a  humble  little  school  teacher  from  some 
127 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

humble  little  village  school  in  a  once  peaceful 
commune,  where  in  another  little  village  school 
his  humble  little  wife  teaches  school  as  he  does. 
He  is  so  light  and  so  frail  that  I  can  lift  him 
myself  with  ease.  He  has  a  shrapnel  wound  in 
his  side  and  they  have  not  found  the  ball.  His 
thin  cheeks  are  scarlet.  He  is  gentleness  and 
sweetness  itself.  What  has  he  ever  done  to  be 
crucified  like  this  ?  Monsieur  Gilet  is  not  think- 
ing of  his  burning  wound.  He  is  thinking  of  the 
little  woman  in  the  province  of  Cher.  How  can 
she  come  to  see  him  ?  She  has  no  conge.  When 
will  she  come  to  see  him  ?  For  his  life  is  all  there 
in  that  war-shattered  country.  She  has  a  baby 
twelve  weeks  old,  born  since  he  went  to  battle. 
That's  what  he  is  thinking  of.  When  will  she 
come  ? 

On  his  right  is  a  superb  Arab,  with  an  arm  and 
hand  so  broken  and  so  mutilated  that  it  is  hard 
to  hold  it  without  shuddering  when  the  doctors 
drain  it.  On  his  head  I  have  carefully  adjusted 
a  bright  yellow  flannel  fez.  His  mild  docile  eyes 
follow  the  nurse  as  she  does  for  him  the  few  little 
things  she  can  to  make  him  more  at  ease.  For 
every  service  done,  he  thanks  her  in  a  sweet,  soft 
voice.  Just  now,  when  I  left  him  to  come  over 
here  and  sit  down  before  my  table,  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  He  can  say  a  few  words  of  French. 
128 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

He  kisses  my  hand  with  Oriental  grace.     "  Merci, 
ma  mere." 

On  Monsieur  Gilet's  left  lies  a  man  whose 
language  is  as  hard  to  understand,  very  nearly, 
as  the  Arab's — almost  unintelligible — a  patois  of 
the  Midi.  He  is  a  gardener,  used  only  to  the  care 
of  plants  and  flowers.  He  is  a  big,  rugged  giant, 
and  so  strong,  and  so  silent  a  sufferer  that  since 
his  entrance  to  the  hospital  he  has  not  made  one 
murmur  or  one  complaint,  or  asked  one  service, 
and  excepting  when  spoken  to,  he  never  says  a 
word.  Then  he  gives  you  a  radiant  smile  and 
some  token  of  gratitude.  They  operated  on  him 
to-day.  There  is  shrapnel  in  his  eye.  He  will 
never  fully  see  his  gardens  again,  and  he  is  so 
strong  and  so  patient  and  so  able  to  bear  pain, 
that  they  operated  on  him  without  anaesthetics, 
and  he  walked  to  and  from  the  operating  room — 
a  brave,  silent,  docile  giant,  singularly  appealing. 
...  He  is  thinking  of  his  gardens,  trodden  out 
of  all  semblance  of  beauty,  for  he  had  been 
working  in  the  north  before  the  heel  of  the  bar- 
barian crushed  out  his  flowers  for  ever  and  blotted 
out  his  sight. 

Your  sister, 

M. 


129 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  Mrs.  Morawetz,  N.  Y. 

PARIS,  Nov.  25th,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  make  Paris 
visible  to  you  these  late  November  days — some 
of  them  so  clear  and  frosty  that  the  very  fires 
burn  brighter  for  the  sparkling  air ;  some  of 
them,  as  to-day  for  instance,  misty  and  gloomy 
and  full  of  such  portentous  bodings.  Through 
the  streets,  everywhere,  pass  the  ambulance 
motors — those  of  the  Dames  de  France,  those  of 
the  Croix  Rouge,  those  of  the  American  Ambulance, 
those  of  the  many  auxiliary  hospitals,  British  and 
French — grey  waggons,  with  their  meaningful  Red 
Cross.  And  autos — grey  again,  many  of  them — 
full  of  officers  rushing  from  the  Etat  Major,  from 
the  quarters  of  Gallieni,  up  here  by  the  Invalides, 
whirling  rapidly  through  the  streets,  across  the 
Pont  Alexandre,  up  the  Champs  Elysees,  out 
through  the  gates  and  on  and  on.  Everywhere 
War  is  stamped  upon  the  face  of  this  city  that  you 
and  I  have  known  and  loved  so  at  peace.  There 
are  now,  in  these  cruelly  cold  winter  days,  the 
tragic  sights  of  faces  worn  and  pinched.  There 
are  the  constant  sights  of  new  mourning — oh,  so 
many  women  in  heavy  crape  !  Then,  too,  every- 
where soldiers — the  petit  pioupiou  in  his  red 
130 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

breeches,  and  now  and  then  the  khaki  uniform 
of  England,  and  occasionally  the  Belgian. 

Paris  seems  wonderful  to  me — never  so  adored  ! 
It  seems  to  me  these  days  that  I  carry  it  on  my 
heart  as  something  infinitely  loved — as  a  human 
thing,  threatened,  troubled,  menaced  still — and 
which  must  be  protected,  is  protected  by  the 
blood  of  many  hearts. 

A  little  while  after  my  return,  as  you  know 
through  my  letters,  things  seemed  normal  to  us — 
almost  secure.  It  has  been  tragically  pathetic 
to  watch  that  attempt  for  balance — that  swinging 
of  the  pendulum  of  human  reason  and  human 
character  to  the  adjustment.  Every  one  has 
tried  to  go  on  ;  industries  have  tried  to  lift  up 
their  heads.  Along  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  now  and 
again,  the  shops  would  open,  blinds  lifting  up  like 
the  cautious  opening  of  a  half-shut  eyelid,  as  if  to 
see  if  there  were  anything  worth  looking  at.  And 
the  commer9ant,  anxious  to  do  a  little  business, 
eager  to  keep  on  some  of  the  sorely  dependent 
workpeople.  Doucet  has  kept  his  entire  staff  "  a 
tour  de  role  " — one  lot  one  week,  the  next  week  the 
other.  Many  shops  do  the  same.  At  Jeanne 
Hallee's,  poor  little  Fernande  has  lost  one  brother 
in  the  trenches.  You  would  scarcely  know  her ;  she 
looks  fifty  years  old.  And  all  the  others  we  know 
have  husbands  and  brothers  and  lovers  "  la-bas." 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

A  few  days  ago,  there  began  to  come  over  me 
again  that  spirit  of  unrest — that  strange,  psychic 
foreboding  that  I  had  before  war  was  declared  last 
August.  The  fact  of  Bessie's  marriage  and  the 
few  little  things  that  I  have  had  to  do  for  her, 
the  fact  that  I  have  been  perfectly  settled  and 
comfortable  at  home  and  found  it  so  adorable  and 
so  sweet,  even  the  hospital,  could  not  dissipate, 
in  my  mind,  that  anxiety  ;  and  to-night  I  know 
what  it  all  went  for  and  meant.  We  have  been 
told  to-day  that  the  Germans  are  at  Chantilly. 
Just  how  true  that  is,  who  can  say  ?  But  again, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  Paris  is  in  the 
scheme  of  those  dreadful,  dreadful  hordes.  Now 
that  we  all  know  what  the)'  are,  now  that  we  have 
the  documents  of  their  passing  through  the  north, 
there  is  hardly  a  Parisian  can  bear  the  idea  of  a 
repeated  late  August  and  early  September.  Bessie 
confessed  the  other  day  that  at  that  time,  when 
Robert  decided  to  remain  alone  at  the  Matin,  she 
went  down  to  the  office  and  besought  him,  with 
tears  streaming  down  her  face,  to  leave  while 
there  was  yet  tune.  She  told  me  that  she  was 
terrified — that  it  just  seemed  to  her  that  she 
couldn't  bear  it.  She  had  bought  an  enormous 
quantity  of  provisions — three  armoires  full — and 
decided  to  stock  her  rez-de-chausse  windows  with 
them,  label  them  "  Delikatessen  "  and  put  out 

132 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

her  American  flag  ;  then,  with  her  police  dog  by 
her  side,  to  take  her  chances  !  .  .  . 

To-day  at  Bessie's  we  had  Monseigneur  Battie- 
fol,  the  6veque  who  is  to  marry  her,  to  luncheon. 
He  is  a  perfect  dear — so  clever  and  so  charming. 
We  had  a  lovely  time  together,  we  four,  sitting 
around  that  pretty  table  on  the  eve  of  her 
marriage.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  spent  an  hour  with  the  Marquise 
de  S.  It  has  been  lovely  beyond  words  to  see  her 
again.  She  has  just  come  home.  .  .  .  Her  son 
Henri  was  well  the  last  she  heard  of  him,  and  I 
really  think  that  her  great  love  and  her  constant 
prayers  will  keep  him  safe  to  the  end.  Each  time 
we  have  been  out  together,  we  bought  some  warm 
comforting  things  or  some  delicacy  to  send  him 
in  those  dreadful  trenches. 

The  r.tories  of  courage  are  many.  Lately  a 
group  of  French  Zouaves,  with  hands  tied  behind 
their  backs,  were  marched  by  the  Germans  in 
front  of  their  lines.  As  the  French  advanced 
to  fire  on  the  enemy,  the  Germans  cried  out, 
"  Don't  fire  ;  you'll  kill  your  own  men  !  "  And 
the  Zouaves  called  out  to  their  comrades  :  "  Mais 
tirez-donc,  tirez  done  !  C'est  pour  la  patrie  !  " 
And  the  French  fired,  understanding  that  those 
who  died  thus  for  their  country,  with  their  bound 
hands,  disarmed,  died  as  gloriously  as  it  is  possible 
to  die. 

133 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Goblet  d'Alviella's  documents  have  just  come 
to  me  from  Belgium,  and  I  have  sent  them  on  to 
you  They  tell  their  tale,  do  they  not  ?  And 
it's  a  tale  that  goes  on  without  ceasing — one  long- 
drawn-out  horror,  from  a  people  incapable  of  either 
humanity  or  soul.  God  knows  that,  if  they  conquer, 
I  don't  want  to  live  in  the  same  world  with  them. 

This  is  the  letter  I  sent  to  the  Paris  New  York 
Herald. 

"It  is  with  profound  regret  that  we  learn 
of  the  departure  of  Mr.  Herrick  from  France. 

"  He  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  popular 
figures  of  this  present  momentous  time.  The 
Americans  and  the  other  nations  whose  interests 
he  has  so  ably  guarded  owe  him  a  debt  of  apprecia- 
tive gratitude.  He  has  been  equal  to  a  situation 
demanding,  besides  the  diplomatic  talent  which 
his  high  function  presupposes,  delicacy,  under- 
standing and  kindness.  He  has  met  a  difficult 
proposition  with  diplomacy  and  with  heart.  This 
combination  has  assured  him  a  success  which 
perhaps  few  Ambassadors  have  ever  attained. 
He  has  helped  thousands  and  offended  no  one. 
He  has  shown  a  wide  charity  and  a  tenderness 
toward  the  suffering  that  France  will  never 
forget ;  nor  will  the  American  citizens — troubled, 
anxious  and  in  threatened  danger — who  received 
from  him  his  counsel  and  his  protection." 
134 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Mr.  Herrick  has  made  himself  perfectly  adored 
here.  His  letters  from  the  great  men  of  France 
were  most  appreciative,  and  the  opinion  of  the 
public  is  that  a  colossal  blunder  has  been  made 
in  recalling  a  man  who  understood  the  situation, 
and  who  handled  everything  with  tact,  brilliancy 
and  affection  for  France.  He  has  given  me  a 
letter  to  the  American  Ambassador  in  Rome — 
I  am  going  to  quote  it  to  you. 

"  I  commend  in  person  Miss  Van  Vorst,  whom 
you  know  personally  and  by  reputation,  but  I 
do  desire  to  especially  recommend  her  to  your 
courtesy  and  to  your  care  She  has  been  so 
invariably  sympathetic,  so  enormously  useful  in 
her  hospital  work  at  the  American  Ambulance — 
as  she  always  is  everywhere,  where  women's 
sympathies  are  drawn.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear 
of  her  arrival  in  Rome.  I  commission  her  as  my 
Ambassadress  to  Rome  to  say  good-bye  for  Mrs. 
Herrick  and  myself,  as  we  are  sailing  on  the 
Rochambeau.  Whilst  we  have  a  singing  in  our 
hearts  when  we  think  of  home  and  children,  it  is 
with  ineffable  sadness  that  we  take  our  departure 
in  the  midst  of  the  grief  and  sorrow  which  per- 
vades this  country,  and  as  we  leave  the  people 
for  whom  we  have  a  sincere  affection,  etc.,  etc." 


135 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  cannot  help  but  think  that  never  in  all  your 
life  would  you  find  anything  as  thrilling  as  Paris 
is  now,  although  at  this  moment  I  would  not 
wish  you  here.  The  absence  of  the  heavy  vehicles, 
the  absence  of  all  clatter  and  that  senseless  rush 
of  people  who  are  spectators  of  life  without,  in  a 
way,  being  participators,  is  a  great  improvement. 
All  that  has  gone  and  now  it  seems  as  though 
only  people  who  really  mean  something  to  the 
country  remain — patriots,  people  of  the  soil  and 
of  the  town,  people  doing  their  duty,  people 
absorbed  in  caring  for  others,  the  grave  and  the 
self-forgetful,  those  who  have  the  service  of  their 
county  at  heart  and  are  in  its  employ.  There  is 
absolutely  nothing  in  the  city,  as  far  as  one  can 
see,  that  is  unreal,  and  you  can't  help  but  feel 
that  all  here  are  part  of  the  web  of  destiny  in  a 
very  real  fashion,  making  history  with  the  others 
— part  of  this  cloud  that  passes  across  the  face 
of  France.  There  are  no  places  of  amusement 
open,  except  the  cinemas  ;  although,  hesitatingly, 
the  theatres  promised  to  come  back,  they  have 
not,  and  probably  will  not  for  some  time.  Most 
beautiful  flowers  fill  some  of  the  shops — those 
great,  luscious,  deep-hearted  pinks  that  you  love 
— and  here  and  there  a  little  cart  one  deep  blue 
mass  of  violets.  And  on  the  boulevards,  in  place 
of  the  cumbersome  old  buses,  now  rolling  the 

136 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

p'tit  piou-piou  hither  and  thither,  are  queer  old 
waggonettes,  with  the  sign  "  Madelene-Bastille  " 
posted  up  on  them.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  touching  reason  for  the  giving  of 
one  special  Medaille  Militaire  in  a  certain  hospital. 
The  soldier  had  an  amputated  leg,  beside  many 
other  wounds,  and  his  sufferings  were  great. 
But  from  that  bed  of  his,  during  the  most  painful 
dressings,  not  only  was  there  never  a  word  of 
complaint,  but  there  was  such  gaiety,  such  good 
cheer,  such  bravoure,  such  spirited  greetings  to 
the  occupants  of  the  other  beds,  that  the  whole 
poor  amputated  ward  took  courage  from  him  as 
paling  torches  are  lit  from  a  superior  flame.  It 
is  satisfying  to  think  that  at  this  time  all  courage 
meets  its  reward,  for  here,  to  this  bed,  the  chiefs 
brought  the  decoration,  not  given  with  the  pro- 
fusion of  the  Iron  Cross — the  Medaille  Militaire 
— and  pinned  it  on  his  breast. 

Yours  ever, 

M. 

To  Mrs.   Victor  Morawetz. 

PARIS,  Nov.  27th,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

Knowing  your  interest  in  what  comes 
to  us  here,  I  want  to  tell  you  as  much  as  I  can 
about  yesterday. 

137 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Bessie  spent  Wednesday  night — the  night 
before  her  wedding  day — here  with  me.  All  the 
evening  I  had  passed  waiting  in  the  little  study, 
putting  in  order  old  letters — letters  that  dated 
back  from  Bessie's  first  meeting  with  my  brother. 
...  I  am  going  to  make  this  winter,  a  collection 
of  some  of  my  correspondence,  which  is  interesting 
beyond  words  and  a  real  human  document.  .  .  . 
We  had  a  lovely  evening  together. 

The  following  morning  we  both  dressed 
tranquilly.  Bessie  wore  a  little  black  tulle  dress 
with  just  a  touch  of  blue  at  the  bodice  ;  and  she 
had  a  fur  cape  and  muff  and  a  very  pretty  hat, 
and  she  looked  sweet.  The  Marquise  de  Sers 
sent  her  auto,  and  Bessie  and  I  went  together 
first  to  the  Mairie  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle.  This 
quarter  is  familiar  and  sacred ;  we  have  both 
lived  here  for  nearly  fifteen  years.  There  in 
the  Mairie  we  found  a  beautiful  old  room 
opening  on  a  lovely  garden  and  set  apart 
for  us  and  the  Civil  Service.  Monseigneur 
Battiefol  was  there  in  his  long  black  bishop's 
coat,  edged  with  red  and  the  red  sash,  and  the 
Secretary  of  the  French  Academy,  witnesses  for 
Robert,  and  Mr.  Herrick  and  myself  witnesses  for 
Bessie,  and  then  Bessie  and  Robert.  They  two 
sat  in  dark  velvet  chairs  before  the  desk  of  the 
mayor,  who  has  been  mayor  of  this  quarter  for 
138 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

thirty  years.  In  a  second  he  had  married  them  ; 
in  a  second  pronounced  for  the  last  time  "  Bessie 
Van  Vorst." 

The  mayor  then  rose  and  made  a  short  address. 
You  know  what  a  bore  these  things  are  as  a  rule, 
but  this  happened  not  to  be.  Its  delivery  took 
about  four  minutes,  I  should  think,  and  it  was 
very  fine  indeed.  There,  at  this  momentous  and 
tremendous  time  in  which  we  live,  were  gathered 
in  that  little  room  people  of  unusual  distinction. 
I  never  heard  anything  so  charming  as  the  way 
the  old  Frenchman  turned  to  Mr.  Herrick  and 
thanked  him  for  France,  and  what  he  said  to 
Robert  and  Bessie,  as  you  will  read,  was  most  apt. 

We  then  went  from  there  to  the  little  chapel 
just  at  the  back  of  my  house,  St.  Clotilde,  and  dear 
old  Bishop  Battiefol  married  them  in  the  sacristy, 
and  we  stood  around  him  like  a  little  family. 
There  was  absolutely  nothing  to  jar,  there  were 
only  gathered  together  people  who  were  dear  to 
each  other — Bessie,  Robert,  and  myself  and  Mr. 
Herrick,  whom  we  care  for  very  much,  and  the 
distinguished  old  priest  and  the  representative  of 
the  Academy.  It  was  a  charming  memory  to 
gather  and  put  away  with  many  others  in  this 
country  that  has  been  so  much  to  us  all. 

The  three  came  home  to  lunch  here  with  me  : 
we  had  a  delicious  wedding  breakfast  and  sat  and 
139 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

talked  around  the  fire  until  four  o'clock,  and  then 
they  went  and  left  me  alone. 

Bessie  looked  beautiful,  well  and  happy,  and 
Robert  so  proud  and  glad.  Little  will  change  in 
their  lives,  but  I  feel  once  more  my  loneliness  and 
how  the  receding  tide  goes  back  and  takes  with 
it  each  time  some  treasure  and  buries  it  irrevocably 
far  out  to  sea. 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews. 

Nov.  3Oth,  1914. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

This  morning  I  was  just  sitting  down  for 
a  long  "  winter's  nap  "  when  Webb  brought  me 
the  news  that  Mollie's  maid  had  asked  that  one 
or  two  things  should  be  garnered  from  the  Hotel 
du  Rhin.  Not  to  make  too  much  of  a  long  story, 
let  me  tell  you  that,  on  the  day  that  Mollie  left, 
Hoffmann  and  all  his  staff  tore  like  mad  for 
Germany,  and  the  police  let  him  get  away.  He 
was  attached  to  the  military  authorities  in 
Germany,  he  and  all  his  people  had  been  spies 
for  years.  Frs.5o,ooo  were  handed  to  him  from 
the  German  Embassy  as  he  got  on  the  train. 
Some  say  he  was  shot,  and  others  that  he 
escaped.  The  hotel  and  all  its  properties  have 
been  handed  over  to  the  authorities,  and,  as 
140 


MADAME  HUGUES  LE  KOUX 
(BESSIE  VAN  VORST) 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Pierre  is  going  for  a  soldier,  there  only  remained 
one  day  for  me  to  get  what  I  could  of  your  things, 
as  everything  is  to  be  sold  at  auction.  Webb  and 
I  together  danced  over  and  got  them  all.  I  wonder 
if  you  can  think  a  little  bit  how  I  felt  going  up 
those  five  flights  of  stairs  in  that  cold,  deserted 
hotel,  past  rooms  that  were  not  cold  or  deserted 
when  I  knew  them  before.  Webb  had  already 
made  one  journey  over  there,  and  Pierre  had 
refused  to  open  the  cupboard,  telling  her  that  there 
was  nothing  there  of  yours.  You  see,  he  could 
not  very  well  refuse  me.  I  got  everything  (and  I 
think  I  got  a  little  more  !)  and  when,  later,  Webb 
returned  to  take  your  last  belongings  in  closely 
packed  clothes-baskets,  she  was  perfectly  flabber- 
gasted— and  as  she  is  as  honest  as  the  day  you 
can  imagine  how  disgusted  she  was  to  hear  Pierre 
absolutely  refuse  to  let  the  maid  of  another  lady 
take  away  her  lady's  things !  He  told  Webb 
quite  coolly  that  he  and  the  concierge  had  to  get 
something  out  of  it  for  themselves.  I  have  two 
trunks,  and  all  the  pretty  things  that  you  left 
behind.  It  gave  me  a  real  emotion  to  see  them, 
and  to  smell  the  scent  in  Mollie's  scent-bottle  put 
the  last  touch  to  it  all.  If  you  want  these 
things  packed  and  sent  to  America,  you  must 
let  me  know,  otherwise  I  shall  keep  them  all  here. 


141 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  Mr.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N.J. 

PARIS,  Dec.  4th,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  FREDERICK, 

To-morrow  will  be  my  last  day  at  the 
hospital,  as  I  start  in  the  evening  for  Nice,  on  my 
way  to  Rome.  I  have  lately  found  myself  sole 
nurse  in  a  ward  with  nine  men.  I  could  not  have 
borne  the  responsibility  long — nor  would  I  have 
been  asked  to.  It  is  simply  filling  in,  but  I  have 
neither  orderly  nor  auxiliary.  The  men  have 
been  brought  from  other  wards  and  are  con- 
valescing. Only  two  of  them  are  in  bed.  By 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  have  made  nine 
beds,  given  nine  men  their  breakfasts,  tidied  the 
ward — of  course,  the  sweeping  and  cleaning  are 
done  by  charwomen — and  dressed  the  wounds  of 
nine  men,  all  alone.  I  have  all  my  materials  spread 
out  on  a  little  table — things  for  sterilizing,  etc. — 
and  of  course  I  work  in  gloves.  They  are  mostly 
hand  wounds,  arm  wounds  and  foot  wounds,  and 
those  of  the  men  who  can,  come  to  me  at  the  table, 
to  my  little  clinic.  The  first  day  when  I  arrived 
there  and  unrolled  those  bandages,  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  going  to  find ;  but,  marvellous  to 
relate,  I  seemed  to  be  equal  to  the  task.  There 
isn't  anything  in  the  world  like  the  expressions 
on  the  faces  of  those  men  when  you  have  relieved 
142 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

their  pain  and  dressed  them  well,  and  they  tell 
you  that  they  have  had  a  good  night's  sleep, 
thanks  to  you,  and  you  see  the  colour  in  their 
cheeks  and  their  temperature  is  normal  and  they 
are  doing  well.  Oh,  it's  wonderful !  One  of  the 
men's  legs  is  amputated  above  the  knee  and  that  is 
the  most  serious  work  I  have  had  to  do  in  the 
Ambulance. 

Bessie  came  in  one  day  with  gifts  for  my  men, 
and  knowing  that  I  had  natives  in  my  ward,  she 
brought  them  each  a  little  mirror.  You  would 
not  suppose  that  a  piece  of  glass  could  give  such 
joy.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  them  gazing 
at  their  eyes  and  at  their  teeth,  which,  brushed 
in  the  hospital,  had  never  been  brushed  before. 
One  of  them — Ali — would  have  brushed  his  teeth 
every  hour  if  we  had  let  him,  and  then  he  examined 
every  separate  tooth  in  the  mirror.  Think  of  it  ! 
Brought  from  those  deserts,  from  the  mud  cabins 
and  the  tents,  to  be  cut  up  like  this,  and  to  gaze 
for  the  first  time  at  their  image  in  a  bit  of  glass  in 
a  military  hospital ! 

Some  of  the  natives  are  especially  picturesque. 
In  the  ward  next  mine  there  are  two  Soudanese — 
not  brown,  but  black.  They  are  savages  of  the 
most  pronounced  type,  and  both  of  them  are 
wounded  beyond  description.  One  of  them  has 
seventy-five  wounds. 

143 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

In  another  ward  near  mine  there's  a  strong, 
splendid,  Englishwoman.  She  took  a  dislike 
to  me  at  the  first — didn't  know  why  a  writer 
should  want  to  bother  with  her  profession,  but 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  win  her,  so  I  bore  her 
severity.  Well,  a  great  deal  goes  down  before 
determination  and  good  humour,  and  Miss  Hick- 
man's  disapproval  went  down  when  we  were  called 
upon  to  do  some  little  services  together  and  she 
found  that  I  was  serious.  Finally,  we  became 
friends,  and  I've  been  in  and  helped  her  in  the 
afternoon,  when  I  had  tune,  for  she  has  no  auxiliary 
either.  She  let  me  assist  in  the  dressings,  and  I 
have  grown  very  fond  of  her  ward.  It  is  full  of 
English  Tommies,  and  unless  you  nurse  them  and 
help  those  English  boys,  you  don't  know  what  they 
are.  They  are  too  lovely  and  too  fine  for  words. 
One  perfectly  fine  young  fellow  has  had  his  leg 
amputated  at  the  thigh — his  life  ruined  for  ever. 
Another  is  blind,  staring  into  the  visions  of  his 
past — he  will  never  have  anything  else  to  look 
at  again.  The  chief  amusement  of  these  fellow? 
seems  to  be  watching  the  funerals,  and  they  call  me 
to  run  to  the  window  to  see  the  hearses  covered 
with  the  Union  Jack  or  the  French  flag,  and  they 
find  nothing  mournful  in  the  processions.  One 
Sunday  afternoon,  as  I  sat  there,  leaning  against 
a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  few  country 
144 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

flowers  in  a  vase  near  by — for  Miss  Hickman  asks 
for  country  flowers  for  country  lads — I  asked  them 
if  they  wouldn't  sing  me  a  song  that  I  had  heard 
a  good  deal  about  but  had  never  heard  sung. 
"  What's  that,  nurse  ?  "  asked  the  boy  without 
a  leg.  "  Tipperary  " — for  I  had  never  heard 
it.  "  Why,  of  course  we  will,  won't  we,  lads  ?  " 
and  he  said  to  his  companion,  only  nineteen,  from 
some  English  shire  :  "  You  hit  the  tune."  And 
the  boy  "  hit  it,"  and  they  sang  me  "  Tipperary." 
Before  they  had  finished  I  had  turned  away  and 
walked  out  into  the  corridor  to  hide  the  way  it 
made  me  feel,  and  I  heard  it  softly  through  the 
door  as  they  finished  :  "  It's  a  long  way  to 
Tipperary."  I  shall  never  hear  it  again  without 
seeing  the  picture  of  that  ward,  the  country 
flowers  and  the  country  lads,  and  hearing  the 
measure  of  that  marching  tune.  .  .  . 

I  have  seen  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  constantly.  She 
seems  to  be  ubiquitous.  Wherever  there's  need, 
she  is  to  be  found — whether  in  the  operating- 
room,  the  bandaging-room,  or  in  one  of  the  great 
wards  where  she  has  charge.  I  have  found  her 
everywhere,  just  at  the  right  moment :  calm, 
poised,  dignified,  capable  and  sweet.  But  none 
of  this  expresses  the  strength  that  she  has  been  to 
the  American  Ambulance  since  its  foundation — 
the  heart  and  soul  of  its  organisation  ;  and  her 
145  K 


personal  gifts  to  it  have  been  generous  beyond 
words.  I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do  when  she 
finally  returns  to  America.  She  animates  the 
whole  place  with  her  spirit  and  her  soul.  .  .  . 


Miss  B.  S.  Andrews. 

NICE,  December  igth,  1914. 

MY  DEAR  BELLE, 

I  would  like  to  tell  you  of  the  day  before 
that  on  which  I  left  Paris  for  Rome,  and  make  it 
stand  out  for  you,  as  it  did  for  me,  in  its  pictur- 
esqueness,  its  tenderness  and  its  interest. 

I  had  told  them  that  I  was  going  to  Rome,  and 
I  could  not  go  on  with  my  hospital  work,  and 
made  all  my  plans  to  leave  in  a  day  or  two, 
knowing  that  as  my  place  would  be  more  than 
filled  I  could  desert  my  post ;  but  just  as  I  was 
about  to  take  my  leave  one  of  the  head  nurses 
asked  me  if  I  would  take  charge  of  Ward  246,  as 
the  capable  woman  who  had  had  charge  of  it 
since  the  opening  of  the  hospital  had  succumbed 
to  the  long  fatigue,  and  had  contracted  appendi- 
citis from  standing  indefinitely  for  months,  and 
from  overwork,  and  was  obliged  to  go.  "  There 
is  neither  orderly  nor  assistant  nurse,"  she  said, 
"  and  in  that  ward  there  are  nine  men,  and  you 
must  do  all  the  dressings."  She  seemed  to  take 
146 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

it  so  for  granted  that  I  would  not  at  that  moment 
go  back  on  the  situation,  that  you  can  imagine 
for  nothing  in  the  world  would  I  have  refused,  but 
as  I  followed  her  into  Ward  246  and  realised  that 
I  was  at  last  alone  before  the  situation,  for  which 
for  months  I  had  been  preparing,  I  felt  a  not 
unnatural  qualm. 

Her  confidence  in  me,  and  the  fact  that  she 
would  not  have  asked  me  if  she  had  not  been 
sure,  for  some  unknown  reason,  that  I  was  equal 
to  the  moment,  gave  me  the  necessary  courage, 
and  I  accepted  the  wonderful  opportunity  with  the 
same  joy  that  I  have  accepted  all  these  experiences 
from  the  beginning. 

I  found  myself  before  the  task  of  dressing  alone 
the  wounds  of  nine  men,  but  the  joy  of  being  quite 
alone,  and  having  no  one  to  speak  to  me,  to 
disturb  me  or  to  give  me  any  orders,  was  so  new 
and  so  delightful  that  it  was  a  stimulus.  The 
perfect  organisation  of  the  hospital,  the  quantity 
of  material  on  hand,  the  well-filled  closet,  with  all 
the  necessities  for  the  merciful  work,  were  great 
helps,  and  in  a  short  time  I  had  installed  on  the 
middle  table  of  my  ward  my  little  impromptu 
dispensary. 

The  first  one  I  dressed  was  on  the  left  of  the 
Ward  as  I  went  in — a  poor,  touching  English  chap 
of  about  thirty  years  of  age.  His  left  leg  was 
147 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

amputated  to  the  middle  of  the  thigh,  and  I  can 
assure  you  that  when  I  undid  those  dressings  and 
realised  what  was  before  me,  I  felt  as  serious  as  I 
ever  have  in  my  life.  He  held  up  his  terrible 
stump,  helping  me  as  well  as  he  could.  Well,  I 
finished  that  job,  covering  the  appalling  surface 
with  the  healing  balsam  salve  we  use  so  much  in 
the  Ambulance,  and  left  him  high  and  dry  and 
comfortable. 

The  other  men,  with  one  exception,  were  out 
of  bed,  and  one  by  one,  when  I  had  made  myself 
and  my  materials  ready,  I  asked  them  to  come  up 
to  the  table  to  be  dressed.  The  first  man  had  the 
back  of  his  hand  blown  off  and  was  wounded  in 
the  arm,  and  one  had  no  fingers.  The  others  were 
minor  wounds,  only  demanding  cleansing  and 
rebandaging. 

I  was  on  duty  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  and  by 
eleven  o'clock  I  had  tidied  the  ward,  made  nine 
beds,  dressed  the  wounds  of  nine  men — after 
giving  them  their  breakfasts — taken  all  the  tem- 
peratures, and  just  as  I  was  about  to  sit  down  and 
catch  a  breath,  the  dinner  hour  arrived,  and  the 
serving  had  to  begin  all  over  again. 

I  was  working  in  this   Ward  until  the  last 

moment,  when  I  took  the  train  for  Rome,  and  I 

can  assure  you  that  when  I  turned  my  back  on  the 

Ambulance  that  night,  leaving  it  all  bathed  round 

148 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  the  red  of  a  rarely  beautiful  winter  sunset,  it 
seemed  as  though  I  could  not  go,  as  though  the 
very  fibres  of  my  life  were  engaged  there  in  that 
merciful  and  touching  work. 

I  do  not  speak  of  physical  fatigue,  for  it  is 
hardly  interesting,  excepting  that  the  eyes  swim 
and  the  hands  tremble  when  you  want  them 
specially  strong. 

I  remember  that  one  night,  I  had  been  asked 
to  a  dinner  at  half-past  eight,  which  I  was  especi- 
ally anxious  to  attend.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
my  sister-in-law  (Mrs.  John  Van  Vorst)  and  her 
new  husband,  Mr.  Le  Roux  of  the  Matin,  had  been 
asked  with  me  to  dinner  at  the  house  of  the 
Marquise  de  S.,  and  I  did  want  to  go  very  much 
indeed. 

During  my  work  in  the  American  Ambulance, 
I  always  lunched  and  dined,  whenever  I  did  so,  in 
my  hospital  dress,  just  as  I  was,  as  there  was  never 
any  time  to  make  a  toilet,  and  this  time  I  had 
finished,  as  I  thought,  my  duties  and  was  just 
about  to  turn  away,  after  saying  good-night  to 
my  men,  and  to  give  up  my  Ward  to  the  night 
nurse,  when  I  looked  over  to  the  ninth  bed,  in 
which  the  latest  comer  was  sitting  upright,  with  an 
appealing  expression  on  his  pale,  agreeable  face. 
He  was  an  ordinary  soldier  from  the  trenches, 
brought  in  late  from  one  of  the  other  Wards, 

149 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  I  had  supposed  him  ready  for  the  night. 
I  could  not  help  but  return  to  him  for  the  second. 
I  asked  him  with  my  heart  almost  failing, 
"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  "  Well,"  he  said, 
"I  have  not  closed  my  eyes  for  two  nights  because 
my  wounds  are  so  dry.  You  would  not  look  at 
them,  would  you  ?  "  When  I  took  off  his  shirt 
I  found  he  was  bandaged  from  his  groin  almost 
to  his  armpits,  and  I  knew  that  under  those 
bandages  would  be  a  very  serious  proposition  for 
me  to  face  after  twelve  hours  on  duty.  I  went  out 
to  see  if  I  could  not  find  some  one  more  responsible, 
but  it  just  happened  that  there  was  no  one,  and 
how  could  I  refuse  to  give  what  little  skill  and 
experience  I  had  to  this  contingency  ?  When 
I  unbandaged  the  poor  thing  I  found  across  his 
back  two  wounds,  whose  width  and  whose  gaping 
mouths  cried  to  Heaven.  I  think  it  took  me  about 
half  an  hour  to  wash  them,  to  cleanse  them  and 
bind  him  up  again.  By  that  time  my  hands  were 
trembling  and  my  limbs  were  almost  beyond  my 
own  control. 

I  remember  driving  to  Cousin  Lottie's,  going 
in  in  my  white  clothes,  and  up  that  beautiful 
stairway  to  the  peaceful  salon,  where  she  sat 
with  her  two  guests  on  either  side  of  her.  They 
were  all  waiting  for  me,  with  such  deep  sympathy 
for  the  sons  of  France  and  England,  for  whom 
150 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  was  caring  as  best  as  I  could.  All  Cousin 
Lottie's  dear  ones  were  on  the  firing  line,  and  she 
sat  waiting  for  news.  As  for  Le  Roux,  you  know 
what  his  news  has  been !  I  could  not  have 
gone  into  a  more  sympathetic  audience,  but  I 
had  nothing  to  say  to  them.  I  was  tired  beyond 
words  and  they  saw  it,  and  excused  me  and  I 
went  home  to  bed,  and  to  those  heavy  dreamless 
sleeps  that  mercifully  come  after  great  physical 
exhaustion. 

In  the  heart  of  the  night  I  awoke  again  and 
again,  thinking  of  the  pale-faced  man,  who  un- 
willingly and  timidly  had  asked  me,  at  the  last 
moment,  to  soothe  those  dry  and  crying 
wounds.  What  if  I  had  not  done  my  work  well  ? 
What  if  some  carelessness  on  my  part  had  infected 
those  pitiful  slits.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  at  seven 
in  the  grey  cold  of  the  early  morning  I  went  back 
to  my  Ward. 

I  want  you  to  imagine  my  joy  as  I  opened  the 
door  upon  that  place  which  I  had  grown  to  love. 
My  soldier  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  his  cheeks  quite 
pink.  He  held  out  one  of  his  hands  to  me  as 
I  crossed  the  floor,  "  Merci,  merci,  ma  sceur," 
"  I  slept  all  night  as  I  used  to  sleep  when  I  was 
a  boy  and  did  not  know  what  war  was."  You 
can  imagine  that  I  was  repaid  for  the  loss  of  a 
dinner  party  and  the  cost  of  a  little  fatigue. 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Of  course  this  is  only  one  tiny  incident,  and 
so  much  more  can  be  told  better  than  I  can  tell  it, 
and  the  stories  have  no  end. 

A  vous  de  cceur, 

M. 

VILLA  SAINT- ANGE,  NICE,  CIMIEZ,  Dec.  gth,  1914. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

It  is  a  long  time  ago  since  you  and  I 
together  saw  the  fronds  of  these  wonderful  palms 
cast  then:  shadows  over  these  sunny  gardens.  I 
have  never  been  content  or  happy  on  this  coast, 
as  you  remember.  There  has  always  been  a  spirit 
of  depression  here  for  me  and  an  unrest.  But 
coming  down  here  this  week,  after  four  months 
of  strain  and  excitement,  there  has  been  something 
peculiarly  lovely  in  the  abrupt  change.  The 
wonderful  beauty  of  the  place  has  appealed  to  me 
as  never  before. 

This  villa  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  palace, 
most  beautifully  furnished  and  all  in  the  best  of 
taste.  I  came  down  on  the  train  with  Mme. 
A.,  whose  husband  is  shortly  to  be  made  Com- 
mandant, and  we  are  alone  here  with  the  little 
girl,  who  is  growing  up  intelligent  and  sweet,  and 
it  is  a  very  agreeable  etape. 

On  the  train,  Mme.  A.  told  me  her  life.     She 
was  born  of  a  peasant  family  in  Burgundy,  in  the 
152 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

simplest,  poorest  milieu.  At  sixteen,  she  came 
third  class  to  Paris,  with  frs.ioo  in  her  pocket, 
and  that's  all  she  had  in  the  world.  An  unknown 
girl,  she  took  the  first  omnibus  she  saw  in  the 
streets,  asked  one  of  the  passengers  for  the  address 
of  a  simple  little  hotel,  and  went  there  alone  to 
seek  her  fortune.  Her  first  position  was  that  of 
lingere  hi  a  little  shop  at  frs.25  a  month.  To-day 
she  is  a  millionaire  !  She  has  a  Paris  house,  a 
house  at  Saint-Cloud,  a  chateau  on  the  Seine, 
and  this  villa  at  Nice,  besides  her  maison  de  com- 
merce. She  married  and  had  a  son  who  died  ; 
and  you  know  the  rest  of  her  life. 

It  was  like  pulling  teeth  for  me  to  leave 
France  and  Paris,  where  daily  I  was  more  and  more 
interested,  and  if  I  had  been  sincerely  needed,  I 
don't  think  I  would  have  gone.  But  the  hospital 
is  full  of  helpers,  and  efficient  ones,  and  many  of 
the  women  were  leaving — all  of  them  anxious  to 
go  to  the  front ;  and  that's  where  I  wanted  to  go 
too.  If  I'd  been  a  little  more  selfish  and  less 
considerate  of  my  duty  to  Mother,  I  would  have 
gone  into  Belgium  with  Ellen  La  Motte. 

4,  PLACE  DU  PALAIS,  BOURBON,  PARIS, 

ajth  December,  1914. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

I   cannot    tell   you   how   lovely   Italy 
and  Rome  seemed  to  me  going  there,  as  I  have 
153 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

just  done,  from  this  war-ridden  country.  Even 
in  this  tune,  the  trip  was  made  without  incident 
or  delay,  and  I  opened  the  windows  of  my  parlour 
at  the  Bristol  on  streets  flooded  with  sunlight  as 
golden  as  in  the  month  of  June.  There  was  the 
fountain  playing,  the  streets  filled  with  such 
brilliant  flowers,  and  the  flock  of  red-robed  priests 
fluttering  toward  the  Pincio.  The  fact  that  they 
were  Austrians  made  me  turn  my  eyes  away,  and 
I  realized  that  I  was  no  longer  in  a  belligerent 
country.  Golden  and  brown,  golden  and  brown, 
the  houses  all  around  gave  and  reflected  back  the 
ardent  light.  There  was  something  to  me  very 
reposeful  in  this  countty,  the  third  I  have 
visited  since  the  war,  and  although  my  heart  and 
sympathies  are  so  strongly  with  the  others,  Italy 
was  like  a  happy  island  at  whose  shores  I  for  a 
time  moored  my  ship. 

In  times  of  peace  I  could  not  have  afforded 
such  apartments  as  I  had.  There  was  nobody 
in  the  Bristol,  and  they  gave  me  the  best 
rooms  in  the  house — gorgeous  salon,  bedroom 
and  bath,  a  room  for  Webb,  and  another  far 
down  the  hall  where  I  could  sleep  out  of  the  noise 
of  the  streets,  all  for  a  price  so  modest  that  it  was 
not  even  to  be  taken  into  consideration. 

We  arrived  at  seven  in  the  morning,  on  a 
Friday,  but  I  could  not  feel  the  day  unlucky, 

154 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

there  was  something  about  it  blessed,  and  the 
very  streets  seem  to  close  in  cordially  around 
the  Piazza  Barbarini.  Never  have  I  liked  Rome 
before.  You  know  here,  just  around  the  corner, 
I  almost  laid  down  my  life  three  years  ago,  and 
there  under  my  windows  another  fountain  played, 
and  I  heard  its  falling  waters  in  my  dreams  of  fever 
and  unrest.  Now  it  seemed  to  me  almost  as  if  I 
had  come  to  take  up  the  "  vita  nuova  "  I  talked 
of  then  in  delirium. 

I  bathed  and  went  to  bed  to  rest  and  sleep 
before  sending  out  three  letters,  one  to  Mabel, 

one  to  G ,  and  my  letter  of  introduction  from 

Mr.  Herrick  to  Mr.  Page,  the  American  Am- 
bassador. I  rested,  but  could  not  sleep ;  in  the 
distance  I  could  see  stretching  out  the  wonderful 
Campagna  that  surrounds  Rome.  I  knew  how 
the  Pincio  was  warming  there  in  the  morning 
sunlight,  and  that  amongst  the  little  children 
with  their  nurses  some  sunny  spot  would  find 
a  little  white  bird  of  a  baby,  a  motherless  little 
bird,  and  I  was  longing  to  see  her. 

Toward  noon  Mabel  came  in  ;  then  there  came 
a  wonderful  bunch  of  red  and  white  roses,  and  when 
I  came  out  from  my  bedroom  Webb  had  already 
made  the  salon  look  like  something  of  home. 

Then  there  arrived  a  letter  from  the  Ambassa- 
dress, asking  me  to  tea,  and  I  went  and  met  at  the 
155 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Embassy  some  new  friends  and  some  old.  Think 
of  it,  how  strange  it  should  chance  to  be  so  ! 
There  was  Mary  Debillier,  my  friend  of  twenty-five 
years  ago,  whose  friendship  I  made  here  in  Italy, 
and  with  whom  I  have  not  been  since.  How 
strange  to  find  her  there !  Then  there  was 
Beatrice  Moore,  Ellie's  child,  never  seen  but 
once  since  her  babyhood.  It  seemed  so  singular 
that  these  old  relations,  both  of  them  connected 
with  so  much  tenderness  and  feeling,  should  be 
there  in  Rome. 

From  the  moment  that  I  arrived  in  Rome,  until 
I  left,  I  had  one  kindness  after  another  extended 
to  me.  The  Pages  took  me  in  with  open  arms. 
"  The  Woman  Who  Toils  "  is  one  of  Mrs.  Page's 
favourite  books.  .  .  . 

Italy,  though  neutral  in  name,  is  full  of 
war,  and,  to  my  joy,  anything  but  neutral— 
perfectly  mad  for  England,  perfectly  mad  for 
France.  The  Germans  go  nowhere.  Italy  has 
over  a  million  men  mobilised  and,  my  dear,  such 
picturesque  men  !  If  one  did  not  know  how  true 
the  contrary  is,  it  would  seem  as  though  they 
were  preparing  a  game  of  war  for  an  illustrated 
book !  Brilliant  soldier  dresses — blues  and  reds, 
with  lackadaisical  plumes — debonnair  soldiers, 
gay  soldier  boys  and  fine  looking  officers — the 
Italian  sunlight,  the  blue,  blue  sky  overhead. 
156 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

.  .  .  One  cannot  help  but  pray  that  the  stern 
northern  battlefields  will  not  swallow  up  Italy's 
army  in  their  dreary  trenches. 

I  met  Marion  Crawford's  first  wife  that  same 
day,  and  she,  too,  took  the  trouble  to  tell  me  that 
"  The  Woman  Who  Toils  "  was  one  of  Marion 
Crawford's  favourite  books.  How  kind  people 
are  !  I  never  shall  be  known  by  anything  but 
"  The  Woman  Who  Toils  " ;  it  seems  to  be 
universally  known.  That  is  because  it  is  a  human 
document,  written  from  facts. 

I  dined  and  lunched  at  the  Embassy  whilst  in 
Rome,  and  met  the  Spanish  Ambassador,  who 
was  charming ;  and  Mrs.  Page  took  me  to  see 
Sir  E.  Rennell  Rodd.  I  had  a  private  interview 
with  him  and  enjoyed  it  immensely.  .  .  . 

After  a  short  ten  days  of  beautiful  skies, 
wonderful  walks  and  drives,  after  a  vision  of  the 
Campagna  that  I  shall  never  forget,  I  packed  a 
steamer  trunk  and  came  back  to  Paris,  leaving  my 
maid  with  my  trunks  to  join  me  at  Genoa. 

Rome  to  Paris — two  nights  and  a  day — back 
again  into  this  grey  winter  city  at  its  Christmas- 
time, when  war  is  written  everywhere.  Never 
had  it  seemed  to  me  so  precious  and  so  deeply 
"  home."  I  cannot  tell  you  how  sweet  it  was  to 
me  to  go  back  into  my  little  blue  and  white  room, 
to  see  the  crimsoning  morning  on  Christmas  Eve 
157 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

red  over  the  roofs  where  frost  had  laid  a  cover  of 
white.  This  winter  mist  is  peculiarly  sympathetic 
here,  and  everything  about  Paris  seemed  more 
adorable  to  me  than  ever  before. 

This  afternoon  we  are  all  going  to  tea  with 
Gertrude  Stein,  the  Cubist,  the  title  of  whose  last 
book  is  "  Tender  Buttons  " — if  you  know  what 
that  means. 

I  suppose  you  know  that  Miss  Enid  Yardel 
has  been  doing  perfectly  magnificent  work. 
She  has  been  the  means  of  helping  to  support 
from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand  people  in  this 
dreadful  crisis.  And  speaking  of  it  all,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  have  not  heard  one  complaint,  not 
one,  from  ruined  families  and  from  those  from 
whom  all  has  been  taken.  The  only  mention 
that  I  have  heard  of  money  and  poverty  and 
denial  is  from  rich  Americans  ;  they  have  spoken 
of  then*  reduced  incomes,  and  have  complained, 
but  here,  there  is  not  one  sound.  The  other  day 
I  heard  from  one  of  my  friends  who  has  lost  five 
sons  and  all  her  fortune.  I  heard  from  her 
because  she  is  interested  in  a  work  of  charity  and 
wanted  some  advice.  I  mention  these  facts 
because  they  give  one  poise.  Mrs.  Bliss,  of  the 
Embassy,  has  been  enormously  generous.  One 
of  her  gifts  alone  was  over  $20,000,  and  I  suppose 
she  has  given  a  great  deal  more.  At  any  rate 
158 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

she  said  :  "  I  think  that  any  American  who  comes 
out  of  this  crisis  with  his  income  what  it  was 
before  the  war  is  an  '  honte/  a  disgrace.  What 
have  we  done,"  she  said,  "  to  show  we  took  part 
in  what  others  are  enduring — I  mean  to  say,  what 
have  we  done  that  has  cost  us  anything  at  all  ?  " 
Next  week  I  leave  for  Nice,  to  go  down  and 
stay  with  Mother  until  I  sail.  It  has  not  seemed 
real  to  me  that  if  God  spares  me  I  shall  see  you 
again  so  soon — I  have  not  believed  it  true.  When 
I  left  you  I  felt  that  it  was  for  ever,  that  I  should 
never  see  you  again — perhaps  that  is  so,  and  yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  probabilities  are  that  a 
better  future  than  that  is  hi  store,  and  with  this 
idea  I  am  letting  myself  begin  to  realize  the  fact 
that  you  are  there  on  that  other  Continent  alive 
and  well,  and  that  I  shall  have  the  inexpressible 
happiness  of  seeing  you  once  more.  Tremendous 
lessons  have  been  set  before  me  since  June — I 
could  not  hope  to  say  that  I  have  learned  them, 
it  would  be  too  much  to  say,  would  it  not  ?  But 
I  can  at  least  say  that  I  have  read  them  through 
attentively  and  tried  to  take  some  of  them  to 
heart.  I  think  we  are  all  graver  and  that  our 
natures  must  have  deepened  by  the  contemplation 
of  the  sufferings  of  others ;  how  great  these 
sufferings  have  been ;  the  nobility  and  the 
grandeur  of  the  little  country  that  we  as  a  country 
159 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

have  stood  up  and  seen  wiped  out ;  the  industry 
and  patience,  the  superb  courage  of  the  French ; 
the  English  response,  the  magnificent  handling  of 
the  military  question  at  sea  and  overseas  by  the 
British  Empire ;  the  threatening  of  peaceful 
England,  the  touch  of  the  invasion  of  those  never 
before  insulted  or  ravaged  shores  ;  how  grave  it  is, 
how  great  it  is  !  The  graves  that  fill  this  land, 
the  trenches  piled  thick  and  high  with  men  who 
have  died  for  an  idea,  because  they  were  called, 
uncomplainingly  ;  that  stern  courageous  Front 
set  toward  an  enemy  whom  some  of  them  never 
even  saw.  Innocent,  simple-minded  men  brought 
from  the  desert,  brought  from  the  land  of  temples, 
and  across  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  to 
fight  for  an  empire  not  even  their  own  by  blood, 
in  a  land  that  can  never  be  theirs.  If  without 
complaint,  without  cowardice,  simple  people  can 
so  die,  surely  we  of  the  more  civilized  lands,  and 
with  everything  in  our  favour,  should  be  able 
uncomplainingly  to  live  ? 

This  will  be  my  last  letter  from  France.  I 
know  how  anxious  you  will  be  to  hear  from  me 
viva  voce,  something  of  what  I  have  seen,  but,  you 
see,  I  have  told  it  all  to  you  far  better  than  I  can 
ever  speak  of  it  again. 

Always  yours  devotedly, 

M.  V.  V. 
1 60 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
NEW  YORK,  Jan.  soth,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  have  just  received  a  long  letter  from 
the  Marquise  de  S.,  and  it  is  so  indicative 
of  the  spirit  of  the  women  of  France  at  this 
moment  that  I  don't  think  I  can  do  better  than 
quote  it  as  it  stands.  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
interested  to  read  it. 

"PARIS,  15  Jan.,  1915. 

"  My  DEAR  FRIEND, 

"  Thank  you  for  your  dear  letter  and 
for  your  gentle  concern  for  my  health  and  comfort. 

"  My  life  holds  many  difficulties  and  much 
that  is  inexpressibly  painful  to  support ;  but  a 
soldier's  wife  and  a  soldier's  mother  has  a  strong 
source  from  which  to  draw  her  courage. 

'  You  kindly  asked  me  how  I  spent  Christmas 
and  the  first  day  of  this  New  Year.  The  idea  of 
Christmas,  merry  Christmas,  was  depressing. 
The  clouds  seemed  dark  and  low  and  crushing,  the 
atmosphere  was  heavy  with  doubt,  pain  and  un- 
shed tears.  The  streets  were  full  of  poor  crippled 
soldiers  in  worn,  ragged  uniforms,  but  with  bright 
faces,  and  there  was  no  outward  sunshine.  But, 
dear  friend,  we  women  of  France  keep  it  in  our 
hearts,  close  and  warm  beside  our  courage,  our 
hope,  our  faith,  our  love.  We  mothers  and  wives 
161  L 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  sisters  feel  that  the  moral  strength  of  our 
soldats,  our  officers,  our  dearest  and  best  who  are 
struggling  and  fighting,  must  come  from  us,  and 
with  our  heart  and  soul  we  send  them  uplifting 
help  by  our  firm  belief  in  them,  our  pride  in  their 
courage,  both  moral  and  physical,  our  tender 
ever-present  love  which  covers  them  like  great 
wings  of  strength  and  protection,  however  dark  or 
discouraging  may  be  their  condition.  We  make 
them  feel  sure  that  the  ceaseless  prayers  that  we 
offer  to  God  for  them  will  be  answered  ere  long 
with  Victory  and  peace  and  delicious  reunion 
with  those  they  love.  And  most  of  all  they  must 
never  suspect  that  our  hearts  are  sad  and  lonely 
and  hungry,  and  life  a  burden  because  of  their 
absence.  So  no  matter  how  bitter  our  struggles,  we 
must  ever  have  the  rays  of  warm,  tender  sunshine 
coming  from  our  hearts  to  theirs.  They  watch 
for  this,  they  need  it,  they  live  on  it ;  and  we 
never  fail  them.  When  at  first  I  was  alone,  I 
trembled,  I  was  weary  and  lost  without  the 
strong,  gentle  young  arm  that  had  ever  been 
beside  me,  and  I  wondered  how  I  could  live 
without  it,  when  one  day,  about  six  weeks  after 
my  dear  son  had  left  me,  I  received  a  letter  which 
said  :  '  Each  day  we  go  further  and  further  away 
from  you,  I  miss  so  terribly  your  strength.  I  can 
cheerfully  endure  all  kinds  of  miseries  and  the 
162 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

discomforts  of  a  soldier's  life,  but  my  hands  are 
always  reaching  out  to  you  for  strength  and 
comfort  of  mind.'  This  was  a  revelation  to  me, 
so  the  little  card  had  told  me  my  path.  I 
then  made  a  vow  with  my  heart  that  never 
would  I  look  forward  in  thought  to  any  evil  that 
could  come  to  the  dear  son — at  least  my  moral 
force  should  be  ready  for  any  battle.  Then  I 
gave  him  to  God,  and  have  ever  since  kept  a 
calm  courage  which  I  know  has  been  a  force  to 
him,  and  has  helped  me  keep  my  vibrating  nerves 
under  control. 

'  You  are  perhaps  wondering  what  connection 
this  has  with  your  question  about  my  Christmas. 
It  is  simply,  dear  lady,  the  prelude  to  tell  you 
why  I  could  endure  the  anguish,  the  utter  loneli- 
ness of  that  day.  In  the  afternoon  of  Christmas 
Eve,  I  went  to  a  convent  which  has  been  trans- 
formed into  an  ambulance.  I  went  to  take  the 
poor  men  cakes  and  sweets  for  their  Christmas 
dinner.  I  knew  the  Mere  Superieure  well,  and 
she  begged  me  to  stay  and  have  a  little  dinner 
with  her,  and  then  assist  with  a  few  others  at  the 
midnight  Mass  for  the  soldiers.  I  was  delighted. 
All  day  the  dread  of  that  evening  alone  with  my 
sweet  sad  souvenirs  of  those  other  joyous  Christ- 
mas Eves  had  hung  heavily  over  me.  After  a 
little  meal,  the  good  Mere  took  me  into  the  ward 
163 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

of  the  seriously  sick  soldiers.  I  spoke  a  little 
word  to  each,  and  then  we  went  into  the  pretty, 
dark  old  chapel.  A  soft,  dim,  religious  light 
pervaded  the  entire  chapel,  but  after  a  moment 
our  eyes  were  drawn  towards  the  Altar,  which 
was  draped  with  flags  and  brilliantly  illuminated 
by  many  flickering  candles.  On  each  side  of  the 
altar  were  grouped  the  soldiers  (those  who  could 
walk)  and  the  sisters,  the  nurses.  The  Messe  was 
sung  by  them,  and  oh  so  heartily  and  religiously  ! 
The  soldiers  had  been  learning  the  music  for  a 
week.  Then  came  the  Holy  Communion,  and 
every  soldier  partook  of  it.  Many  of  them  walked 
with  difficulty,  but  they  helped  each  other,  and 
all  had  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  There  was  great 
peace  depicted  on  each  face  as  they  returned  to 
their  seats.  When  the  Mass  was  finished,  the 
priest  walked  to  the  door,  followed  by  the  soldiers. 
The  Mere  was  awaiting  them  and  gave  to  each  a 
lighted  candle,  and  then  they  commenced  to  sing 
and  marched  slowly  into  the  ward  of  the  seriously 
ill  men.  The  priest  stopped  before  the  bed  of 
each,  said  a  little  prayer,  and  gave  each  poor 
suffering  soul  the  Holy  Communion,  the  Bread  of 
Life.  The  priest  was  followed  by  the  soldiers, 
each  with  his  candle,  by  whose  dim  light  we  saw 
the  pale  faces,  weary  and  worn,  but  illuminated 
with  the  joy  that  they  also  might  receive  this 
164 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

great  consolation.  After  this  beautiful  ceremony 
was  finished,  and  while  we  were  still  all  kneeling, 
the  priest  gave  the  Benediction,  and  then  slowly 
left  the  ward,  the  soldiers  following,  chanting. 
I  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  wonderful  beauty 
and  solemnity  of  this  service.  We  were  all 
impressed  by  its  '  perfect  peace.'  We  hardly 
spoke  on  leaving  the  ward,  but  with  a  silent 
pressure  of  the  hand  we  each  one  returned  to  his 
home  feeling  we  had  been  very  near  the  Mercy  Seat 
of  Christ. 

"  I  had  promised  my  dear  son  to  go  to  the 
Communion  at  9  o'clock,  at  the  hour  that  he 
could  receive  it  in  his  regiment ;  so  I  had  little 
sleep,  and  when  the  day  broke  I  went  out  in 
stillness  and  silence  to  meet  the  soul  of  my  dear 
son  waiting  to  find  mine  for  our  Holy  Office. 
Need  I  tell  you  more  of  my  Christmas  ?  I  forgot 
that  I  was  old  and  alone,  and  only  remembered 
that  it  was  the  fete  of  our  Lord,  who  had  come 
ici-bas  to  protect  us  all.  Many  dear  hearts  came 
to  cheer  me  all  the  day.  Pray,  dear  friend,  that 
whatever  may  come,  this  peace  may  never  forsake 
me. 

"  I  send  you  our  most  affectionate  souvenirs. 
My  boy  often  asks  for  your  news.  .  .  . 

"  P.S. — This  a.m.  the  sad  news  of  the  death 
of  two  nephews  has  come  to  me,  and  another  who 
165 


WAR  LETTERS  OF   AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

left  with  his  brothers,  who  are  both  killed,  is  a 
prisoner,  poor  dear,  and  they  have  cut  off  one  of 
his  legs.  Only  God  knows  our  sufferings.  " 


NEW  YORK,  Feb.  1915. 

DEAREST  MOTHER, 

It  is  impossible  for  us  not  to  realize  that 
the  eyes  and  the  attention  of  the  Powers  at  war 
on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean  are  fixed  and 
fastened  upon  us  with  intensity,  with  anxiety, 
and  were  at  first  so  fixed  with  hope  and  belief. 
I  speak  of  the  French  and  English,  the  one 
speaking  our  own  language,  to  whom  we  are 
neither  foreigners  nor  aliens,  with  whom  we  are 
kin  by  race  and  speech,  by  ancestry  and  by  tradi- 
tion. The  other  whose  friendship  for  us  in  the 
moment  of  our  struggle  for  Independence  is  a 
thing  that  no  American  should  forget. 

These  peoples  have  seen  us  from  the  beginning 
of  this  struggle  manifest  a  certain  ready  generosity, 
such  as  the  American  people  have  never  failed  to 
display  in  crises  and  disasters,  the  unbuttoning 
of  the  general  pocket  to  relieve  suffering,  the 
bigness  of  heart  which  evinces  itself  in  the  bigness 
of  its  donated  sums. 

This  they  have  seen.     They  have  felt  the  wave 
of  protest  mild  indeed,  compared  to  the  gravity 
of  the  crimes.     They  have  looked  and  waited, 
166 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

expected  and  hoped,  and  I  might  say  appealed, 
and  this  is  all  they  have  seen.  The  great 
American  Republic,  sealing  her  eyes  to  the 
dazzling  horrors  of  the  distant  wars,  has  turned 
herself  to  her  own  affairs.  From  the  very  moment 
that  the  neutrality  of  Belgium  was  violated,  from 
the  moment  the  treaties  regarding  her  welfare  and 
security  were  insulted  and  trampled  upon,  the 
Germans  offended  every  principle,  outraged  every 
ideal  for  which  the  United  States  stands.  And 
further,  the  German's  manner  of  entering  into  the 
kingdom  of  Belgium,  their  undoubted  and  un- 
disputed acts  of  hideous  brutality,  crime,  mutila- 
tion and  slaughter  have  outraged,  offended,  and 
disgusted  and  horrified  every  humane  and  truly 
American  citizen  of  the  United  States. 

No  general  protest  from  us,  from  the  millions 
of  women  who  feel  intensely  and  with  all  their 
hearts  disapproval  of  Germany's  war  and  her 
methods  of  warfare — no  protestation  from  the 
citizens  of  this  free  and  humanitarian  Republic 
has  gone  forth.  Had  a  general  protest  been 
launched  at  the  very  beginning,  it  is  probable  that 
the  subsequent  course  of  events  would  have 
been  changed. 

Of  the  ninety  millions  of  citizens  of  the  United 
States,  are  the  Germans  the  most  active,  the 
most  intense,  the  most  alive,  and  the  most  vital  ? 
167 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Is  it  possible  that  such  a  thing  as  this  can  be 
true  ?  If  this  is  not  true,  how  can  it  be  possible 
that  the  national  voice,  which  the  conflicting 
peoples  have  listened  in  vain  to  hear  uplifted, 
when  it  speaks,  speaks  alone  for  commercial 
interests — can  we  say  to  satisfy  the  greed  of  a 
certain  class  ? 

That  our  commerce,  that  our  industries  should 
have  free  scope,  that  in  no  wise  we  should  be 
either  crippled  or  our  prosperity  imperilled  is  just 
and  right,  but  at  this  crucial  and  delicate  moment 
of  the  history  of  nations  it  behoves  this  great 
people  to  be  extremely  careful  as  to  her  methods 
and  her  modes  of  procedure.  Americans  have 
not  hesitated  to  judge  Germans  :  we  must  not 
hesitate  to  judge  ourselves.  In  order  to  purchase 
a  few  interned  vessels  in  the  harbour,  a  purchase 
by  which  the  Germans  would  be  supplied  with 
further  means  of  carrying  on  their  detested  war, 
the  forcing  of  an  issue  at  this  moment  over  the 
protests  of  England,  over  the  protests  of  France, 
is  like  driving  the  very  prow  of  the  vessel  of  our 
State  through  the  hearts  and  vitals  of  France  and 
England. 

We  have  been  called  the  one  nation  in  the 

world   where   public    opinion   cannot   be   stifled 

either  by  plutocracy  or  autocracy.     It  has  been 

said  of  us  that  we  are  idealists,  still  one  begins  to 

168 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

doubt  it,  and  to  fear  for  the  materialism  that  is 
choking  us,  and  to  draw  the  likeness  between  this 
materialism  and  the  qualities  that  the  German 
Empire  possesses,  and  which  has  made  them 
offensive  to  us,  and  made  their  propaganda  such  a 
dangerous  factor  at  this  moment  in  the  politics 
of  our  country. 


To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

NEW  YORK,  February  loth,  1915. 

DEAREST  FRIEND, 

It  seems  so  strange  to  be  here  again. 
I  almost  feel  as  though  I  had  died  and  gone  into 
another  world  !  After  all  the  excitement  and 
emotion  of  the  past  few  months,  after  such  strain 
and  such  hard,  impersonal  work,  it  seems  singular 
to  be  in  a  country  where  the  War  is  not  the  chief 
interest.  But  I  can't  say  that  it  is  not  a  vital 
interest,  even  here. 

At  first,  I  was  afraid  to  see  people,  for  fear  that 
they  should  feel  differently  to  the  way  I  feel. 
But  I  need  have  had  no  fear.  They  call  America 
neutral — the  Government  calls  it  neutral : 
America  is  not  neutral.  I  have  not  heard  one  voice 
that  was  not  strongly  for  the  Allies.  Indeed, 
any  one  with  pro-German  sentiments  is  persona 
169 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

non  grata.  They  are  not  even  invited  to  the 
houses  where  I  go. 

I  found  myself  dazed  when  I  landed.  Even 
the  fourteen  days  at  sea — (I  must  tell  you  that  on 
board  was  a  group  of  newspaper  correspondents, 
among  them  a  man  named  Archibald.  He  was 
a  pro-German,  if  you  like  !  Some  time,  some- 
where, I  think  the  Kaiser  must  have  looked  at 
him  or  spoken  to  him,  and  from  that  moment 
Germany  had  him,  heart  and  soul.) — Even  the 
fourteen  days  at  sea  were  not  sufficient  to  separate 
me  from  the  interests  and  the  palpitation  of  the 
countries  I  have  left.  I  won't  say  I  can't  settle 
down  here  ;  I  am  still  dazed. 

My  rooms  at  the  hotel  were  full  of  the  most 
beautiful  flowers,  and  it  seemed  so  wonderful  to 
have  friends  like  these  I  find.  I  had  forgotten, 
during  these  few  months,  personal  relations  and 
even  friendly  interchange  of  thought.  .  .  . 

I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  out  here  as  I  used  to. 
I  am  glad  I  only  brought  two  dinner  dresses. 
I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  put  them  on.  Before  my 
eyes  are  still  the  spectacles  of  the  wounded  and  the 
dying,  as  I  have  left  them  behind  at  the  Am- 
bulance. I  cannot  take  life  as  a  social  thing,  I  am 
sure,  whilst  I  am  here. 

The  American  women,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  are 
doing  all  they  can  for  the  Allies.  They  are 
170 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

knitting  like  mad,  to  begin  with.  Hundreds  of 
thousands  of  garments  have  been  sent  across  the 
seas.  This  you  know,  as  you  yourself  are  re- 
ceiving them  all  the  time.  There's  not  an 
entertainment  given  that  is  not  for  the  Russians, 
the  Poles,  the  Belgians,  the  French  Red  Cross,  the 
British  Red  Cross.  Money  seems  to  pour  out  in 
one  general  stream  towards  you  all  over  there. 
I  am  glad — I  am  so  glad.  And  as  for  the  volunteer 
nurses  and  doctors,  why,  they'd  embark  for 
France  and  England  in  bands  every  week  ! 

Here  in  my  little  sitting-room,  I  have  the 
picture  Mr.  Herrick  gave  me  of  himself,  and  a 
picture  of  the  Ambulance ;  and  I  hark  back  to 
France  with  all  my  soul.  .  .  . 

As  for  you,  I  know  that  in  your  heart  and  mind 
is  just  one  thought — the  safety  of  that  beloved 
son  of  yours  ;  and  somehow,  we  all  feel  here  that 
your  love  is  so  great  and  so  enveloping,  that  your 
prayers  are  so  constant  and  so  full  of  faith,  that 
he  will  be  spared  to  you.  We  all  feel  it.  We  have 
all  said  it  a  thousand  times. 

I  must  tell  you  just  a  little  touching  thing. 
The  other  day,  I  came  in  late  and  went  up  to 
Mollie  Andrews'  room.  She  was  dressing  for  the 
opera  and  stood  there  with  her  opera  cloak  thrown 
around  her  shoulders,  looking  radiantly  lovely. 
I  said  to  her  : 

171 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

"  Mollie,  I've  had  some  bad  news." 
And  before  I  could  speak,  the  tears  rushed  to 
her  eyes  and  she  put  out  her  hand  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  Captain  Dadvisard 
is  killed  !  Don't  tell  me  that :  I  couldn't  bear 
to  hear  it  !  " 

Well,  of  course  I  hadn't  heard  that  dreadful 
news,  I  am  glad  to  say.  It  was  something  else, 
and  I  hastened  to  tell  her  so.  I  mention  this  to 
let  you  see  how  we  all  think  of  you  and  how  deeply 
we  take  his  safety  to  heart. 

With  my  devoted  love, 

As  ever, 

M. 


To   Mrs.    Theodore    Haviland,    Limoges. 

NEW  YORK,  February  aoth,  1915. 

DEAREST  JULIE, 

I  am  sure  that  it  would  gladden  the 
hearts  of  all  you  women  over  there,  working  as 
you  are  night  and  day  over  the  wounded,  if  you 
could  see  the  interest  that  the  women  here  take 
in  all  that  is  going  on  across  the  sea. 

I  have  not  talked  a  great  deal  of  my  ex- 
periences, because  they  were  so  deep  and  so  heart- 
rending that  words  are  slow  to  come  ;  but  when- 
172 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

ever  I  have  been  willing  to  say  anything  at  all 
about  the  scenes  of  grief  and  suffering,  the  sym- 
pathy and  the  tenderness  expressed  by  our  friends 
has  been  gratifying  in  the  extreme.  .  .  . 

I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  "  Big 
Tremaine  "  is  one  of  the  "  best  sellers,"  and  they 
say  that  if  it  had  not  been  war  time,  it  would  have 
gone  up  into  the  hundreds  of  thousands.  Isn't 
that  just  too  mean  for  words  ?  .  .  . 

I  have  been  asked  to  meet  the  New  York 
committee  for  the  American  Ambulance  in  Paris, 
and  to  say  a  few  words  about  the  hospital  to  the 
Board  in  Mrs.  Whitney  Warren's  studio. 

As  I  write,  it  is  snowing  hard,  but  the  streets 
are  ablaze  with  light.  The  brilliance  of  Broad- 
way and  Fifth  Avenue  came  to  me  like  a  shock, 
after  darkened  Paris  and  London. 

With  much  love  to  all, 

As  ever, 

M. 

NEW  YORK,  March,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

A  well-known  German  writer  recently 
referred  to  us  as  a  purely  commercial  nation. 
We  began  by  being  New  Englanders  and  Yankees. 
That  we  know  sharp  bargains  and  drive  them  is 
true,  but  we  are  also,  and  have  always  been, 
173 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

idealists,  and  it  has  not  yet  been  declared  to  us 
that  the  reasons  for  the  present  war,  forced  upon 
Europe  by  Germany,  are  not  purely  materialistic. 
We  are  also,  as  a  nation,  inclined  to  believe  that 
it  is  not  the  purely  materialistic  things  that 
triumph. 

Germany  is  making  us  a  pathetic  appeal  that 
her  people  may  be  nourished  and  fed.  We  are 
far  from  her,  with  her  quarrels  and  her  militarism. 
Militarism  we,  as  a  nation,  repudiate.  We  have 
so  far  formed  the  public  opinion  that  Germany 
has  brought  the  war  upon  the  world.  Our  ears 
are  ringing  with  the  cries  of  the  Belgians  and  of 
the  Poles,  for  whose  famine  and  desolation 
Germany  is  responsible. 

The  American  people  want  neither  disturb- 
ances nor  war.  We  are  not  inflammatory,  nor 
quick  to  take  issue,  nor  are  we  suddenly  moved. 
We  are  a  big  body,  and  when  we  move  the  effect 
will  be  proportionate.  Made  up,  as  we  are,  of 
many  peoples,  our  voice  has  a  peculiar  richness 
of  tone ;  we  absorb  many  colours,  and  the  com- 
posite hue  is  deep.  We  are  a  crucible  into  which 
the  varied  races  have  been  poured,  but  the  result — 
though  our  ingredients  are  conglomerate — will  be 
found  to  be  strikingly  unified. 

Our  Press  does  not  inflame,  it  reflects.  Our 
public  opinion  is  so  strong  that  no  Government 
174 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

or  course  of  events  can  drown  the  expressions  of 
the  American  people. 

We  will  protect  our  citizens  and  our  commerce. 
Germany  understands  what  it  will  mean  to 
antagonize  the  United  States.  The  question  is 
one  that  reaches  beyond  this  war  time,  that 
reaches  into  the  future,  and  its  results  to  all 
peoples.  What  happens  now  amongst  us  all 
will  be  difficult  to  forget.  Let  Germany  in  her 
attitude  toward  the  United  States  be  circum- 
spect. 

Every  thinking  German-American  regards  the 
present  situation  with  the  intensest  interest,  and 
many  discover  that  the  American  Fatherland 
grips  them  acutely.  If  the  German  Emperor, 
according  to  an  ancient  boast  of  his,  is  ruler  over 
—  millions  of  Germans  in  the  United  States, 
let  him  look  to  how  he  commands  and  what  he 
upholds. 

The  question  is  not  one  of  arms  and  ships 
alone.  It  is  a  question  of  commerce,  economics, 
and  of  the  wealth  and  gain  of  nations.  Every 
hour  that  we  in  America  are  thrown  more  com- 
pletely upon  ourselves  for  our  manufactories  and 
our  industries,  we  are  finding  out  the  great 
importance  we  are  to  ourselves,  and  what  our 
isolation  means  to  our  greater  commercial  self- 
sufficiency. 

175 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  don't  think  you  half  realize  over  there  the 
splendid  work  done  for  the  American  Ambulance 
by  certain  women  in  New  York.  When  the 
subject  was  broached  of  an  American  Ambulance 
in  Paris,  to  be  run  by  American  citizens,  the  task 
of  raising  the  funds  was  entrusted  to  Mrs.  Bacon, 
wife  of  the  former  Ambassador.  Mrs.  Bacon  and 
Mrs.  Greenough  together  have  raised  nearly  half 
a  million  dollars — just  think  of  it ! — by  frankly 
asking  people  to  give,  and  without  any  general 
appeal  to  the  public.  Both  Mrs.  Bacon  and  Mrs. 
Greenough  have  been  indefatigable  and  marvellous 
in  their  concentrated  efforts.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  by  Christmas,  1915,  these  women  alone  will 
have  raised  far  over  a  million  dollars  for  France. 


To  Mme.  Hugues  Le  Roux,  Paris. 

NEW  YORK,  March  i8th,  1915. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

You  can't  imagine  what  an  exciting 
thing  has  happened  to  me.  I  want  you  to  give 
me  your  best  wishes — I  might  almost  say  your 
prayers,  for  I  shall  need  them.  I  am  going  to  do 
the  thing  which  almost  all  writers  do  at  some 
period  of  their  lives  :  speak  in  public.  I  won't 
say  that  I  am  terrified.  It's  far  beyond  that, 
176 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

The  other  morning,  I  was  sitting  at  half-past 
eight,  taking  a  peaceful  cup  of  tea  with  Belle  in 
her  little  sitting-room — for  we  breakfast  to- 
gether— when  some  one  called  me  on  the  telephone. 
(They  begin  here,  you  know,  to  call  you  on  the 
telephone  at  any  old  hour.  I've  been  waked  at 
half -past  seven  ;  I've  been  called  out  of  my 
bath  many  times.  But  you  know  what  the 
American  telephone  is  :  it's  an  all-night  and  all- 
day  job.)  Well,  the  telephone  rang  and  I  ran  to 
answer  it  with  my  teacup  in  my  hand. 

Mrs.  Robert  Bacon  was  at  the  other  end  and 
she  said  to  me  : 

"  I  want  you  to  speak  for  the  American 
Ambulance  before  about  eight  hundred  people 
next  week.  Will  you  ?  " 

That  doesn't  sound  like  anything  much,  does 
it? 

I  drank  two  or  three  swallows  of  tea  before  I 
answered  her,  the  receiver  at  my  ear,  and  I  felt 
like  the  Mad  Hatter  at  "  Alice  in  Wonderland's  " 
tea-party — in  a  dressing-gown,  with  a  teacup  and 
saucer  in  my  hand.  I  almost  bit  a  piece  out  of 
the  china.  I  was  scared  stiff. 

"  But  I  can't  speak  in  public,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Bacon.  I've  never  done  so  in  my  life  !  " 

'  Yes,  you  can.  You  spoke  at  the  committee 
meeting  the  other  day ;  and  you  made  us  cry. 
177  M 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

And  if  you  can  make  us  cry,  you  could  move  a 
New  York  audience.     Will  you  ?  " 

Now  I  want  to  tell  you  that  this  was  the  most 
stirring  invitation  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  I  felt 
right  then  and  there  that  I  could  do  it ;  and 
instantly,  with  the  real  conferencier's  spirit,  I 
said  : 

"  But  why  eight  hundred  ?  Can't  you  get  a 
thousand  ?  " 

And  Mrs.  Bacon  laughed  and  said  :  "  We'll  do 
the  best  we  can." 

Well,  that's  all  right  on  the  telephone,  my 
dear ;  but  I  didn't  drink  any  more  tea  or  finish 
my  breakfast.  And  now  the  reality  stares  me 
in  the  face  :  that  I've  got  to  speak,  that  I  don't 
know  how,  and  that  I  shall  probably  make  a  most 
dismal  and  terrible  failure.  But  it's  for  the 
American  Ambulance,  and  I  love  it  so  much,  and 
it's  a  real  cause  and  a  great  need.  Every  pulse 
in  my  body  beats  for  France  and  England  and 
I  am  going  to  try.  This  is  Thursday  :  I  am  to 
speak  on  Tuesday.  Wish  me  luck. 

Devotedly  yours, 
M. 


178 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  Mrs.   Van  Vorst,  Nice. 

NEW  YORK,  March  2oth,  1915. 

DEAREST  MOTHER, 

I  went  to  Hackensack  to-day  with  the 
notes  of  my  speech  in  my  pocket  and  I  hoped 
some  of  it  in  my  head. 

I  went  alone.  Mollie  Andrews  had  promised 
to  come  with  me  to  give  me  courage,  but  at  the 
very  last  moment  she  decided  she  was  far  too 
fond  of  me  to  go  out  and  see  me  make  a  fool  of 
myself  !  But  I  am  glad  after  all  I  went  alone. 

Rolling  out  on  the  trolley,  I  grew  somewhat 
composed,  but  by  the  time  I  reached  Mary's 
house  I  was  terrified  beyond  words  and  would 
have  sold  myself  for  twenty-five  cents  to  any  one 
who  would  have  carried  me  out  of  the  state  of 
New  Jersey  ! 

It  was  too  odd  to  see  the  rooms  full  of  people 
who  had  come  to  hear  me  speak.  It  seemed  so 
naive  of  them,  to  gather  themselves  together  and 
go  in  and  sit  down  to  hear  me.  Of  course  you 
understand  what  I  mean  !  But  that  wasn't  the 
worst  of  it.  Every  idea  I  had  ever  had  in  my 
life  vanished  away.  At  the  proper  time,  how- 
ever, I  managed  to  get  into  the  room  from  some- 
where and  to  the  little  platform  Mary  had  had 
built. 

179 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

There  were  azaleas  from  her  greenhouse  on 
the  platform,  and,  something  that  brought  me 
back  to  my  more  normal  state  :  one  of  the  old 
parlour  chairs  from  my  childhood's  home.  When 
I  was  a  little  girl,  I  used  to  sit  in  it.  There  was 
something  comforting  in  the  sight  of  it.  It's 
strange  what  parts  inanimate  things  play  in  our 
lives. 

But  neither  the  azaleas  nor  the  old  chair  from 
home  could  have  given  me  the  courage  to  speak  in 
public  !  Fortunately,  however,  Mary  had  con- 
ceived a  luminous  idea.  She  had  asked  a  man 
with  a  beautiful  voice  to  sing  the  "  Marseillaise  " 
and  "Tipperary,"  and  he  was  singing  when  I 
came  downstairs. 

The  notes  of  that  song  and  the  thought  of 
what  its  music  meant  to  us  all  in  France  inspired 
me.  It  carried  me  out  of  myself.  The  word 
"  France,"  the  marvellous  tune,  the  thought 
that  I  should  speak  for  France,  and  that  even 
my  modest  offering  might  be  of  some  use,  gave  me 
courage. 

Well,  I  spoke,  then,  and  Mother  dear  I  wish 
you  had  been  there.  How  wonderful  that 
would  have  been,  wouldn't  it,  to  have  seen  your 
face  among  those  faces.  I  watched  Frederick's. 
He  was  in  the  front  row.  Of  course  you  know 
that  there  could  not  be  a  more  touching  subject 
180 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

at  this  moment  than  that  of  the  wounded  and 
dying  soldiers  in  the  hospitals.  Many  people 
wept,  and  after  I'd  finished  they  all  crowded 
round  me.  I  was  unconscious  of  myself  while  I 
spoke,  but  afterwards  I  trembled  so  that  I  could 
hardly  stand.  Above  all,  I  was  so  glad  Frederick 
was  pleased.  It  would  have  been  dreadful  to 
have  failed  in  his  house  and  in  his  town. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  Devon,  dear  Mary 
called  me  up  on  the  telephone.  She  said  : 

"  Why,  Hackensack's  perfectly  crazy  about 
your  speech  !  People  have  been  calling  me  up 
from  all  over  the  town  to  thank  me  for  asking 
them,  and  a  lot  of  others  have  been  calling  me 
up  to  know  why  I  didn't  ask  them  !  " 

And  I  said  :  "  Mary,  do  you  think  it  was  a 
success  ?  " 

And  she  said  :  "  Your  brother  says  he's  never 
heard  anything  like  it  in  his  life  !  "  .  .  . 

(My  dear  Mother,  you  can  take  this  for  a 
compliment  or  not,  just  as  you  please.  I  felt 
pretty  sure  that  he  never  had  heard  anything 
like  it !) 

Mary  went  on  : 

"But  I'm  awfully  glad  we  didn't  sell  the 
tickets,  because  I  don't  think  it  would  be  good 
taste  to  make  people  pay  to  hear  your  sister 
speak." 

181 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

And  I  told  Mary  that  I  quite  agreed  with  her. 
And  this  is  only  Saturday  night,  and  New 
York  (and  Fifth  Avenue)  isn't  Hackensack. 
But  never  mind  !  I  hear  the  "  Marseillaise  " 
and  I  hear  "  Tipperary  "  ringing,  ringing  in  my 
head. 

God  bless  England  !     Vive  la  France  ! 

Your  devoted  daughter, 

M. 


To  Mme.  Hugues  Le  Roux,  Paris. 

NEW  YORK,  March  24th,  1915. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

I've  always  known  that  I  had  wonder- 
ful friends,  but  I  never  realised  how  splendid  they 
all  were  before. 

When  I  was  down  in  Richmond  once,  in  the 
old  historic  church  there,  I  heard  a  negro  grand- 
father say  to  his  tiny  little  pickaninny  grandchild, 
who  stood  by  his  side  : 

"  Sonny,  dis  hyar  am  de  spot  whar  Patrick 
Henry  done  make  his  Big  Speech." 

And  the  little  nigger,  with  his  eyes  popping 
out  of  his  head,  asked  : 

"  What  did  he-all  say,  gran'pa  ?  " 

"  He  said :  '  Gimme  liberty  an'  gimme 
death.'  " 

182 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

"  N'what  did  dey  gin  him,  gran'pa  ?  " 

(That  was  a  poser,  but  the  old  negro  was 
equal  to  it !) 

"  Why,  dey  gin  'im  bofe." 

Well,  when  I  made  my  "  Big  Speech,"  every 
one  of  my  friends  rallied  round  me  in  the  most 
adorable  way  you  ever  knew.  You  see,  it's  all 
very  well  to  just  toss  it  off  and  take  it  lightly,  my 
dear  Bessie ;  but  you  can't  realise  what  a  truly 
big  thing  it  was  in  my  life.  You  see,  you  don't 
gather  together  some  500  representative  New 
Yorkers — the  best  there  are  and  the  best  we  have 
—to  bore  them  if  you  can  help  it.  You  must  re- 
member that  New  Yorkers  are  pretty  well  "  fed 
up  "  with  the  best,  and  it's  no  easy  thing  to  hold 
their  attention  !  I  knew  this,  and  I  realised  that 
if  I  failed  .  .  .  !  It  was  the  most  serious  moment, 
in  a  way,  that  I  ever  faced  ! 

But,  dear  Bessie,  I  had  the  moment  with  me, 
if  one  may  speak  so.  I  had  the  most  thrilling 
subject ;  I  had  facts  and  experiences,  and  I 
felt  and  I  cared.  I  had  seen  too,  and  I  had  suf 
fered  much,  and  for  weeks  I  had  been  forgetting 
about  myself.  That  was  the  best  preparation. 

Dear    Bertha   Rainey  gave  me  a  delightful 

lunch  and  invited  all  my  best  friends.     I  walked 

up  to  Mrs.  Hammond's  house,  however,  alone 

again  ;    and  realised  with  all  my  heart  that  I 

183 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

didn't  want  to  disappoint  those  who  cared  for 
me  or  Mrs.  Bacon.  I  think  I  prayed.  I  was  cold 
as  ice. 

Mrs.  Hammond's  beautiful  ballroom  was  full, 
and  after  Brieux,  who  spoke  for  France,  had 
ceased,  then  I  took  courage  and  spoke,  calling  to 
mind  as  well  as  I  could  all  my  pictures  of  the 
wonderful  Ambulance. 

Over  on  the  right  were  the  people,  with  the 
exception  of  you  and  Mother  and  Mme.  de  Sers, 
whom  I  love  best  in  the  world.  Among  the  rest 
of  the  audience  people  who  had  known  me  all  my 
life  ;  and  many  strangers,  and  people  who  hadn't 
seen  me  for  years ;  and  people  who  had  read 
my  books,  and  who  knew  me  by  name  ;  and  many 
who  didn't  know  who  I  was. 

Mary  Van  Vorst  heard  a  funny  thing  just  before 
I  spoke.  One  woman  said  to  another,  when 
Brieux  had  finished  speaking  : 

"  Well,  I  guess  this  next  won't  be  much. 
Let's  go." 

And  the  other  said  :  "  Oh  no ;  let's  sit  it 
out.  It's  about  the  soldiers,  anyway." 

And  Mary  told  me  that  from  then  on,  they 
never  moved  until  I  had  finished,  except  to  wipe 
away  their  tears.  Wasn't  that  nice  ? 

But  the  wonderful  thing  was  to  see  the  faces 
of  those  people  that  I  loved.  I  can  never,  never 
184 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

forget  it  as  long  as  I  live.  You  see,  they  didn't 
know,  of  course,  whether  I  would  fail  or  not. 
How  could  they  tell  ?  It's  so  different  when  you 
know  a  person  well.  Nothing  very  much  that 
they  have  to  say  astonishes  you  or  carries  you 
away.  But  to  see  them  smile,  to  see  them  laugh, 
to  see  them  weep,  to  watch  the  emotion  that  you 
yourself  call  forth  on  the  faces  of  the  people  for 
whom  you  care  and  whom  you  know  so  well — 
why,  it  was  (I  think  I  may  say)  the  most  wonder- 
ful moment  of  my  life. 

I  had  the  most  touching  subject  in  the  world, 
in  all  the  range  of  feeling :  human  sacrifice, 
heroism  ;  what  those  wounded  men  endure,  what 
they  were,  and  the  aspect  of  the  nursing  of  the 
wounded.  At  any  rate,  even  as  I  write  to  you 
about  it  now,  I  am  cold  all  through.  .  .  . 

No  one  moved  from  the  time  I  began  to  speak 
until  I  had  ceased,  except,  as  I  said  before,  to 
wipe  away  their  tears.  And  even  when  I  finished, 
they  didn't  move.  There  was  silence  all  over  the 
room. 

I  don't  know  if  you  would  call  it  a  success. 
That  word  doesn't  interest  me  very  much.  Mrs. 
Bacon  told  me  afterwards  that  she  had  received 
a  great  deal  of  money,  very  generous  cheques, 
after  my  speech.  I  only  know  that  I  can't  thank 
her  enough  for  letting  me  do  this.  Apart  from 
185 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

nursing  at  the  bedsides  of  those  wonderful  men, 
nothing  in  my  life  has  ever  given  me  a  deeper 
feeling  of  pleasure. 

I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  it  went  off 
so  well.    I  cabled  you  and  Mother  to-day. 

As  ever, 
M. 

May  I3th,  1915- 

DEAREST  MOTHER, 

I  have  let  boat  after  boat  go  out  with- 
out a  letter  to  you,  and  on  each  one  of  these 
boats  for  weeks  I  have  been  intending  to  sail 
myself.  At  the  last  moment  one  after  another 
of  the  people  here,  beginning  with  my  brother 
Frederick,  have  begged  and  besought  of  me  not 
to  risk  a  life  that  seems  to  be  precious  to  them, 
and  I  have,  like  a  coward  and  like  a  traitor  to 
duty,  been  weak.  Of  course,  although  the  time 
seems  very  long,  you  must  remember  that  I  have 
said  on  each  occasion,  "It  is  only  seven  days 
more,  and  then  I  shall  sail."  Finally  our  choice 
was  made  for  the  Lusitania,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  in  spite  of  rumours  no  one  had  the  slightest 
fear,  but  all  the  time  I  personally  had  a  strange 
feeling  of  unwillingness  to  embark.  You  know 
that  I  had  originally  booked  my  passage  on  the 
La,  Burgoyne,  and  she  went  down  ;  then  on  the 
186 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Minneswaska,  and  she  went  down.  And  I  should 
have  sailed  on  the  Lusitania  without  any  doubt 
had  it  not  been  that  Molly  Andrews  was  married 
on  the  Thursday,  and  in  this  way  left  her  sister 
Belle  entirely  alone.  I  felt  sorry  for  her  sudden 
loneliness,  and  knew  that  she  suffered  a  great 
deal,  although  she  is  very  reserved.  Remembering 
how  I  suffered  regarding  Violet,  I  thought  I  would 
stay  one  more  week,  just  to  be  a  little  comfort  to 
her,  so  on  Thursday  morning  I  went  down  and  got 
back  my  passage  money,  very  much  to  the 
dissatisfaction  of  the  company,  who  urged  me  to 
go  in  a  beautiful  room  that  they  had  secured 
for  me.  I  then  went  up  to  see  Frederick,  but  I 
must  say  still  with  a  great  longing  toward  that 
comfortable  vast  ship.  Frederick  was  absolutely 
decisive,  and  he  himself  sent  the  telegram  saying 
that  he  forbade  me  to  sail. 

The  Philadelphia  went  out  the  following  week, 
and  I  was  all  ready  to  sail  on  her,  but  in  the  mean- 
time those  horrible  brutes  had  sent  the  Lusitania 
to  the  bottom,  and  Thursday  night  again  Frederick 
called  me  up  and  asked  me,  as  a  favour,  not  to 
sail :  so  did  Bessie  and  so  did  her  husband. 
What  could  I  do  ?  I  feel  that  you  are  lying  there 
frail  and  wretched,  waiting  for  me,  longing  for 
me,  and  I  cannot  conceive  of  a  more  trying 
situation  than  yours,  a  situation,  I  am  sure, 
187 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

borne  with  the  greatest  sweetness  and  patience. 
It  seems  to  me  a  long  crucifixion  that  you  have 
gone  through  these  last  months.  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  forget  what  you  must  have  suffered  and 
endured,  and  all  the  pleasure  and  success  that  I 
have  had  will  be  for  ever  clouded  by  the  feeling 
that  I  have  failed  in  my  duty,  and  that  I  have 
caused  you  needless  suffering  and  anxiety. 

I  have  been  afraid  to  sail  now  on  account 
of  the  relations  between  America  and  Germany, 
and  by  the  time  you  get  this  something  will  be 
definite.  I  feel  too  dreadfully,  also,  about  Italy 
going  to  war,  and  nothing  seems  stable  or  certain. 
I  am  very  nervous  and  very  tired  and  excited, 
feeling  I  have  been  a  coward  and  unworthy  in 
considering  myself  above  others.  I  am  afraid 
there  will  be  no  blessing  for  me  now. 

Bessie  has  come  at  last  to  this  hotel  with  her 
husband.  She  is  having  a  wonderful  time, 
most  amusing  and  interesting,  and  is  dined  and 
sought  after  everywhere.  She  has  written  all 
the  best  part  of  her  husband's  articles  that  have 
gone  to  France,  and  has  worded  all  the  long 
cables.  It  is  extraordinary  how  splendid  her 
mind  is,  how  equal  she  seems  to  the  situations, 
and  how  she  carries  him  along  ;  she  is  the  force 
there.  His  lectures  here  have  been  very  much 
liked  ;  he  has  been  successful  and  delightful. 
188 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

We  are  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  situation 
caused  by  the  Lusitania  horror.  Our  President's 
calm  waiting  and  his  apparent  unwillingness  to 
force  an  issue,  whilst  no  doubt  best  for  the 
country,  has  filled  a  vast  majority  with  impatience 
and  something  like  fury  in  many  people's  hearts. 
I  think  he  is  wise  and  that  he  will  handle  the 
affair  in  the  best  way.  Certainly  the  American 
people  will  stand  nothing  more  from  Germany. 
There  has  been  a  strong  anti- Wilson  party,  but 
now  they  are  more  united,  because  his  note  to 
Germany  expresses  to  them  the  idea  that  we  will 
brook  absolutely  nothing  from  them  further,  and 
has  shown  our  abhorrence  of  their  deeds. 

My  friends  telegraphed  me  and  wrote  me 
regarding  the  Lusitania,  and  everybody  has  been 
most  sweet  and  kind.  My  heart  is  longing  for 
France,  for  the  activity  and  the  usefulness  and 
for  you,  and  to  my  duties  and  tender  interests 
there. 

With  deepest  and  tenderest  love, 

M. 

To  Mrs.   Theodore  Haviland,  Limoges. 

NEW  YORK,  May  20th,  1915. 

DEAREST  JULIE, 

The   deepest  grief   that   the   war   has 
brought  to  me  has  just  come  to  me  now. 
189 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  went  down  to  the  Colony  Club  to  a  luncheon 
to-day,  and  as  I  went  in,  I  saw,  standing  by  the 
door,  Mr.  Bacon,  an  old  friend  of  Cousin  Lottie's. 
I  said  to  him  quite  cheerfully  : 

"  Have  you  news  from  France  ?  How  is 
Henry  Dad  visard  ?  " 

"  Henry  Dad  visard  ?  Why,  don't  you  know  ? 
He  has  been  killed." 

Oh,  it  doesn't  seem  as  though  it  could  be  true  ! 

I  don't  know  Mr.  Bacon  at  all  well,  but  I 
just  seized  his  hand,  and  the  tears  poured  down 
over  my  cheeks.  It  was  so  strange  to  hear  it 
there  like  that,  in  that  American  club,  so  far 
away  from  my  dear  friend,  whose  anguish  and  grief 
I  can't  contemplate.  It  doesn't  seem  that  it  can 
be  real.  I  know  of  no  one  more  alive,  more  living  ; 
I  know  no  man  with  more  brilliant  promise  ;  and 
what  this  blow  will  be  to  cousin  Lottie  I  dread 
to  think. 

I  had  not  intended  to  sail  for  Europe  for  some 
time,  but  I  shall  go  this  week.  Not  that  I  can  be 
of  any  comfort  or  any  consolation  ;  but  at  least 
my  presence  and  my  tenderness  will  be  there. 
I  shall  telegraph  her  to-day  to  say  that  I  shall 
sail  on  Saturday. 

With  love  to  all, 

As  ever, 

M. 
190 


THE    HON.  ROIiEKT    BACON 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 
CLARGES  STREET,  LONDON,  June  ist,  1915. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

You  will  think  it  strange,  perhaps, 
when  I  say  that  I  regret  very  much  that  you  did 
not  sail  with  me,  in  view  of  the  danger  of  this 
strange  crossing  !  ...  It  was  a  curious  sensation 
to  find,  as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  danger  (real 
or  imaginary)  grew  and  deepened,  that  one's 
attitude  of  mind  adapted  itself  to  circumstances 
and  to  fate.  I  can  only  speak  for  myself  and 
judge  as  well  as  I  may  of  the  psychological  state 
of  the  other  passengers.  When  one  is  safely 
through  an  adventure,  its  colour  grows  dim  and 
one  is  inclined  to  take  oneself  to  task  for  ever 
seeing  it  in  such  vivid  lights,  but  the  vivid  lights 
were  there  this  time.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Marconi  had  received  in  New  York,  the 
night  before  he  sailed,  warning  not  to  sail,  as  well 
as  an  anonymous  letter.  We  were,  to  put  it 
mildly,  on  the  qui  vive.  ...  It  was  quite  on  the 
cards  that  the  Germans  would  fire  across  our  bow, 
force  us  to  stop,  and  demand  that  Mr.  Marconi 
should  be  taken  off.  .  .  .  But  I  never  heard  the 
slightest  expression  of  fear  or  anxiety  from  any 
one  excepting  a  little  actress,  who  kept  herself 
191 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

up  on  gin  and  bromide,  though  from  one  end  of 
the  first-class  cabins  to  the  other,  every  soul  on 
board  was  strained  and  tense.  .  .  .  All  day 
Saturday — a  divinely  beautiful  day — I  scarcely 
left  the  deck,  and  remained  there  until  five  o'clock 
next  morning.  Part  of  the  time  I  spent  with  a 
Mr.  Trevelyan — the  son  of  the  famous  historian — 
who  has  been  to  America  to  interest  the  United 
States  in  Serbia.  He  was  a  calm  and  agreeable 
companion.  Together  we  leaned  by  the  hour 
on  the  railing,  watching  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
moonrises  I  have  ever  seen,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  white  and  stainless  possession  of  that 
May  night  on  sea  and  sky.  At  any  moment,  in 
any  second,  we  none  of  us  knew  but  what  we  might 
be  torpedoed. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  why  we  felt  so  insecure- 
given  the  fact  that  we  were  on  a  neutral  ship.  We 
received  the  news  that  another  American  boat,  a 
freighter,  had  just  been  blown  up.  How  were  we 
to  know  whether  or  not  that  was  an  affront  or  an 
accident  ?  How  indeed  !  And  then  we  also 
received  a  bit  of  news.  (When  I  say  "  we,"  I 
mean  Marconi  and  the  captain,  and  it  filtered 
through  to  me  through  Mr.  Trevelyan.)  This  was 
the  destruction  of  a  submarine  just  outside  the 
bar.  No  notice  has  been  subsequently  taken  of 
this,  nor  will  be  officially,  and  how  were  we  to 
192 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

know  that  a  submarine  was  not  lying  in  wait  to 
impede  our  passage  or  to  send  us  to  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  ? 

Picture  the  atmosphere  of  the  ship,  with 
every  lifeboat  swinging  free.  I  should  think 
there  must  have  been  twelve  or  thirteen,  six  or 
seven  on  each  side,  and  five  or  six  enormous 
life  rafts  all  cut  loose  and  ready,  and  we  who 
remained  upon  the  deck  had  our  life  preservers 
and  lifebelts  at  our  sides. 

If  you  had  gone  into  my  cabin  you  would  have 
seen  in  my  berth  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little 
girls  you  ever  set  your  eyes  upon,  for  I  induced 
her  mother  to  bring  her  up  from  the  bowels  of 
the  boat  and  put  her  to  sleep  in  my  bed.  You 
cannot  think  how  charming  that  little  brunette 
with  her  rosy  cheeks  looked  lying  there  asleep 
in  my  room. 

Well,  of  course,  with  a  highly  imaginative 
temperament,  I  suppose  that  I  looked  at  the 
possibilities  in  a  more  varied  manner  than  many, 
but  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  was  absolutely 
prepared,  as  I  hope  to  Heaven  I  shall  be  when 
the  real  time  comes.  One  doubtless  never  is, 
I  could  not  experience  the  remotest  feeling  of 
fear.  Indeed,  far  less  than  at  other  times 
in  my  life.  It  all  seemed  so  immense,  so  calm, 
so  transcendent ;  all  the  things  by  which  we 
193  N 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

are  all  now  surrounded  are  so  appalling  and 
so  beyond  thought  to  conceive,  and  naturally 
an  individual  life  seems  a  very  small  matter 
indeed. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  peculiar  it  seemed  to  be 
once  again  here  in  Clarges  Street,  where  I  have 
been  so  often,  under  such  peculiar  circumstances 
during  my  nomadic  and  changeful  life.  Nobody 
can  grow  very  sentimental  about  this  in  the  face  of 
what  lies  not  very  far  away. 

There  are  things  that  strike  me  here  as  they 
always  do  in  England  :  its  beauty  and  the  real 
wonder  that  London  itself  is.  ...  I  feel  the 
same  in  France  and  otherwheres  in  this  rich  and 
marvellous  old  world.  I  do  not  like  to  say  that 
it  seems  too  beautiful  to  last.  Much  is  so  perfect 
that  in  the  nature  of  things  should  be  evanescent. 
How  can  beauty  persist  and  remain  ? 

The  streets  are  full  of  soldiers  now.  Last 
night  in  the  theatre,  where  I  went  alone,  I  heard, 
by  the  way,  the  tune  I  love  so  much  and  which 
you  said  you  would  give  me  to  play  upon  the 
Victor,  "  Michigan."  I  saw  several  wounded 
officers,  men  with  legs  and  arms  bandaged, 
listening  with  the  rest  of  us  to  the  rag-time  tunes. 
Of  course  now,  as  not  before,  the  intense  serious- 
ness of  it  all  seems  to  be  more  thoroughly  appre- 
ciated and  felt,  and  we  are  waiting  for  the  result 

194 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

of  the  Note  to  Germany,*  and  its  effect  upon  the 
United  States. 

To-morrow  I  am  going  to  Windsor  for  the 
night,  and  on  Sunday  I  shall  go  to  France  and 
take  up  there  whatever  falls  to  my  lot  and  to  my 
hand. 

Yesterday  as  I  went  out  late  in  the  afternoon 
I  met  the  same  old  Punch  and  Judy  man  with 
the  little  mongrel  dog,  and  it  all  seemed  to  me  so 
intensely  charming,  so  intensely  full  of  colour, 
and  after  my  long  months  in  America  I  find  my 
sensitiveness  keener  to  it  than  ever  before. 

They  would  have  made  a  good  shot,  wouldn't 
they,  in  getting  Marconi  ?  But  he  has  eluded 
them  and  gone  down  into  Italy  to  give  his  brain 
and  his  talents  to  his  people. 

They  tell  us  that  on  the  outskirts  of  London 
last  night  there  were  Zeppelins,  and  Zeppelin 
fires  in  consequence,  but  very  little  is  known  of 
the  details.  My  secretary  in  Paris  treats  the 
London  Zeppelin  raids  very  lightly,  for  she  tells 
me  that  there  they  have  daily  visits  from  the 
German  aeroplanes,  and  that  the  bombs  fell  just 
around  the  corner  the  other  day,  and  no  one  was 
even  frightened. 

Ever  yours, 

M. 

*  The  First  American  Note. 
195 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Mme.  Hugues  Le  Roux,  New  York. 

CLARGES  STREET,  June  and, 1915. 

MY  DEAR  BESSIE, 

Is  not  Miss  Wickersham  perfectly  charm- 
ing ?  I  never  saw  her  before,  and  I  lunched  there 
to-day  and  found  her  unusually  lovely.  How 
gracious  and  good-looking  she  is  ! 

The  house  was  delightful,  cool  and  sweet,  and 
there  was  an  atmosphere  of  waiting  about  it,  as 
though  the  master  were  waiting  to  hear  the  news 
of  some  great  victory  that  his  shells  have  helped 
to  bring  about,  or  possibly  even  waiting  for  his 
wife  to  return  from  her  nursing  of  the  wounded. 
Of  course  they  spoke  of  you  with  the  warmest 
regard  and  admiration.  You  seem  to  have  left 
the  same  impression  with  them  that  they  made 
upon  you.  Mrs.  Graham  Murray  was  there  for 
luncheon.  She  has  charge  of  the  bureau  of  inquiry 
for  the  wounded  and  missing  at  the  Red  Cross, 
and  says  that  her  heart  is  wrung  from  morning  till 
night.  I  never  heard  anything  more  appalling 
and  in  a  way  more  beautiful  than  her  story  of  the 
sinking  of  the  Lusitania.  One  of  her  friends,  a 
woman,  was  among  the  saved.  This  lady  and 
three  others  were  clinging  to  an  empty  box  in  the 
sea.  They  all  had  on  their  life-preservers,  arid 
196 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

one  or  two  of  them  could  swim  a  little.  Among 
them  was  Miss  Dorothy  Braithwaite,  of  Canada, 
coming  to  Lady  Drummond  here  in  London. 
Both  of  Miss  Braithwaite's  sisters  had  been 
widowed  on  the  same  day,  their  husbands  being 
killed  in  action,  and  when  Miss  Braithwaite 
heard  of  this  she  sailed  immediately  to  come  to 
her  young  widowed  sisters. 

She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  not  more  than  twenty, 
and  very  frail.  When  the  seas  broke  over  the 
box,  all  four  of  them  were  obliged  to  let  go  and 
try  blindly  to  find  it  again  when  they  could. 
At  length  Miss  Braithwaite  grew  paler  and  paler 
and  finally  the  girl  said,  "  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  hold 
on  much  longer.  Please  don't  any  one  help  me, 
else  we  will  all  be  lost."  Her  friend  said  that 
she  smiled  quite  calmly,  and  they  all  four  said  a 
little  prayer  together,  and  the  girl  said,  "  Tell 
Lady  Drummond  that  I  died  bravely  and  did  not 
suffer,  and  cable  the  same  to  my  mother."  Then 
she  let  go.  Her  friend  said  that  a  few  moments 
afterwards  she  saw  the  lovely  little  body  float 
past  her,  and  that  Miss  Braithwaite  lay  with  both 
her  hands  peacefully  clasped  upon  her  breast  like 
a  lily  on  the  water. 

I  wish  this  could  be  told  just  as  I  heard  it.     It 
would  not  take  many  more  incidents  like  this  to 
make  us  go  into  the  war. 
197 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  saw  Mr.  Page.  He  was  very  agreeable,  and 
he  spoke  of  you.  I  told  him  you  were  doing 
some  splendid  work  at  home,  and  he  said,  "  Of 
course  she  would,  we  expect  it  of  her."  I  am  now 
going  down  to  Windsor  to  stay  the  night  with 
Bridget,  coming  up  to-morrow  to  go  to  see  the 
Pages  in  the  afternoon  and  dine  at  Sir  Robert's. 
On  Friday  I  shall  go  down  to  see  Lady  North- 
cliffe,  at  Guildford,  where  she  is  nursing  wounded 
soldiers,  and  will  write  you  of  that  experience. 

Last  night  I  went  with  Mr.  Lane  to  the  first 
night  of  "  Armageddon,"  a  new  play  by  Stephen 
Phillips.  It  opened  in  Hell,  then  flashed  on 
to  Rheims,  where  the  invading  host  were  asphyxi- 
ated by  French  shells,  then  into  a  room  in  a 
chateau  which  was  being  devastated  by  the 
Germans.  There  were  en  suite  an  English  garden, 
a  scene  in  Berlin,  and  a  scene  in  Cologne,  and  the 
play  ended  up  in  Hell. 

I  am  going  to  arrange  to  stay  a  day  with  Lady 
Hadfield  en  route  for  Paris  at  her  Field  Hospital 
in  Boulogne. 

Mother  writes  that  Madame  de  S.  is 
desolate  and,  as  you  foresaw,  will  not  speak  of 
her  son.  Madame  de  Bresson  is  with  her,  I 
believe.  Only  two  more  women  for  whom  the 
future  is  absolutely  black  and  desperate.  I  dare 
not  presage  what  is  before  us  Americans,  whether 
198 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

or  not  we  shall  be  plunged  into  this  dreadful 
war  and  thereafter  be  decidedly  more  of  a  nation 
than  ever,  or  whether  we  are  to  remain  at  peace. 
At  all  events  I  am  taking  advantage  of  one  of  the 
secretaries  from  the  Embassy  to  send  my  letters 
now,  and  I  hope  you  will  take  every  possible 
means  of  communicating  with  me.  Everybody 
here  to  whom  I  have  spoken  seems  eager  to  have 
America  join  the  war,  and  some  of  them  think  it 
will  materially  shorten  this  terrible  struggle. 
If  this  is  true,  I  hope  we  will  come  in.  And  there 
will  be  undoubtedly  a  great  spiritual  benefit  to 
us  from  it,  even  if  we  have  to  drain  the  bitter 
cup  that  these  people  are  draining  here.  .  .  . 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

LONDON,  June  3rd,  1915. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  miss  you  all. 
It  would  not  be  possible  to  say  how  I  regret  that 
we  do  not  all  live  in  the  same  country.  Indeed, 
when  I  think  about  it,  I  do  not  want  to  live 
anywhere,  for  it  is  all  too  heart-rending  and  too 
nerve-racking — these  separations  and  these  ad- 
justments of  life  without  a  compass.  It  is  very 
interesting,  however,  and  I  suppose  that  that 
is  something  when  you  think  of  the  women  on 
199 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

far-off  farms  who  from  sunrise  to  sunset  see  nothing 
but  cows  and  the  incomings  and  outgoings  of  the 
hired  men — not  to  speak  of  their  husbands  !  .  .  . 

Certainly  everybody  is  not  meant  for  marriage. 

Here  is  Countess  ,  for  instance,  happy  for 

the  first  time  in  for  life,  nursing  wounded  in  a 
military  hospital,  whilst  in  order  to  keep  her 
husband  peaceful  and  satisfied,  she  has  imported  a 
beautiful  cousin  from  the  United  States  !  .  .  . 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  love  this  beautiful 
city.  Every  time  I  come  back  to  it  it  has  new 
charm.  Here  in  this  very  street  in  1891,  I  sat 
in  one  of  these  impersonal  rooms  with  Adele, 
idly  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  of  Rossetti's 
poems.  I  had  never  read  Rossetti — never.  He 
was  new  to  me.  She  introduced  me  to  him. 
I  remember  so  distinctly  even  the  day  and  how 
beautiful  Adele  was,  and  how  ardently  interested. 
She  said  to  me,  "  Why  don't  you  write  something 
here  ?  "  And  on  the  fly-leaf  of  that  book  I 
wrote  a  piece  of  verse  which  I  sent  to  Scribner's 
Magazine.  It  was,  in  short,  the  first  thing  of 
mine  ever  published.  And  you  remember  how 
I  have  told  you  that  it  was  received  with  interest. 

London  charmed  me  then,  and  down  this 
self-same  street  at  night-time  would  come  that 
man  with  his  remarkable  voice  singing  : 

"  I'll  sing  thee  songs  of  Araby." 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  was  young  then  and  full  of  ambition  and 
interest,  and  even  then,  my  dear,  how  singularly 
alone  I  was.  With  no  one  to  direct  me  or  guide 
me,  or  command  me,  and  only  the  influence  of 
chance  acquaintances  upon  me. 

My  next  keen  recollection  is  when  I  came  here 
at  one  melancholy  Christmas  time,  after  my 
brother's  death,  and  learned  by  cable  from 
America  that  every  cent  of  money  I  had  then  in 
the  world  had  gone.  And  I  knew  then  from 
henceforth  that  I  had  to  face  life  at  first  hand. 
I  bore  that  here  alone,  in  a  London  fog,  where 
later  the  sun  rose  up  like  a  great  big  orange 
lantern  over  St.  James's  Park. 

Then  again  I  remember  London  when  in  a 
little  room  under  the  eaves  I  staj^ed  here  for  a 
few  days  with  the  MS.  of  my  first  novel  in  my 
trunk.  I  remember  the  excitement  of  those 
times,  going  from  one  publisher  to  another,  and 
that  feeling  of  oneness  with  the  mass,  and  I 
realised  what  Dickens  meant  when  in  "  Bleak 
House  "  the  poor  clerk  said  to  Joe,  the  street 
sweeper,  "  I  am  as  poor  as  you  are,  Joe,  and  I 
can't  give  you  anything,  my  lad,"  for  I  had 
nothing  then,  and  you  can't  have  less  than  that  ! 

It  was  Christmas  time.  Ladysmith  was 
besieged,  and  all  London  was  plunged  in  the 
profoundest  gloom.  I  remember  the  crowds 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

around  the  War  Office.  It  was  war  time  then, 
and  such  a  fly  speck  on  the  page  of  history 
compared  to  now. 

I  never  shall  forget  my  excitement  in  selling 
that  first  book,  and  how  in  tune  I  felt  with  the 
whole  world  of  English  writers  ;  unknown  and 
unimportant  as  I  was,  I  felt  so  close  to  all  those 
who  had  written  English  in  this  home  of  English 
letters,  and  London  spoke  to  me  then  in  every 
street,  in  every  park,  in  all  its  great,  mysterious 
charm. 

I  won't  return  to  my  coming  here  last  year 
in  August,  before  England  went  to  war,  because 
you  know  too  well  all  it  meant  to  me  then,  and 
here  I  am  once  more. 

I  am  sure  it  will  amuse  you  to  know  that  my 
maid,  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  unpacked  my 
Victor  and  installed  it  here,  so  that  when  I  am 
very  lonely  I  can  play  the  tunes  I  like  to  hear  ; 
but  some  of  them  I  cannot  play,  for  they  make 
me  sad.  I  do  hope  with  all  my  heart,  dearest 
girl,  that  you  will  like  the  things  I  have  chosen. 
Of  course  I  have  seen  some  beautiful  antiquities, 
but  I  hardly  dared  send  them  from  here  ;  besides, 
I  have  no  money  to  do  so. 

When  you  get  this  letter  you  will  probably 
be  still  awaiting  the  German  response  to  the 
American  Note,  driving  around  the  beautiful 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

country  and  leading  your  serene  and  lovely  life. 
Do  not  forget  me,  that  is,  remember  something 
of  me  that  you  can  remember  with  pleasure,  and 
try  not  to  dwell  upon  my  unsatisfactoriness  and 
all  my  shortcomings.  It  makes  too  long  a  story. 

Ever  yours, 
M. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

CLARGES  STREET,  June  4th,  1915. 
MY  DEAR, 

When  I  am  at  home  with  you  all,  seeing 
the  kind  of  lives  you  lead,  and  the  immunity 
that  you  all  have  from  everything  that  is  really 
trying  and  difficult  and,  I  might  almost  say, 
serious,  I  realise  then  as  I  do  now  a  certain  futility 
in  entering  into  discussions  and  in  trying  to  solve 
moral,  psychological  and  sentimental  problems. 
Nevertheless,  these  problems  are  all  there  hi 
human  hearts.  They  are  things  that  cause  the 
deepest  anguish,  they  are  also  the  things  that 
when  properly  met,  cause  souls  to  rise  to  their 
greatest  heights.  If  it  is  possible  for  you  to  do 
so,  I  wish  you  would  try  to  put  yourself  for  a 
moment  in  my  place.  Those  eight  days  of  loneli- 
ness on  board  ship  facing  what  the  course  of  other 
events  must  prove  to  be  a  possible  danger  at  least, 
returning  here  to  a  country  where  the  preceding 
203 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

months  have  added  daily  to  its  anguish,  to  its 
grave  questions,  and  looking  forward  to  grappling 
with  new  and  old  problems  has  made  me  more 
grave  and  more  serious  in  my  point  of  view  than 
I  have  ever  been  before. 

One  thing  is  certain  :  I  am  not  willing  to  go 
on  for  the  rest  of  my  existence  in  the  constant 
society  of  myself,  unless  I  can  make  that  society 
at  least  agreeable  and  at  least  have  it  under  my 
control.  .  .  . 

I  went  the  other  night  to  stay  in  Windsor 
Forest  with  Bridget.  There  she  has  been  ever 
since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  just  with  her 
little  children  and  her  painting  and  her  Belgian 
refugees.  She  was  sweet  and  lovely,  and  I  enjoyed 
supper  in  her  little  house,  with  the  children  at 
another  tiny  table,  and  Lady  K.  and  two 
beautiful  English  girls  who  adore  their  mother, 
so  that  it  was  the  prettiest  thing  I  ever  saw.  It 
gave  you  a  perfect  glow  of  happiness  to  see  such 
love  between  mother  and  daughters.  Bridget 
has  great  talent.  We  took  a  motor  after  dinner 
and  took  Lady  K.  home  and  Bridget  drove. 
And  there  we  got  stuck  in  a  country  village  in 
the  dead  of  night  with  a  whole  regiment  of 
Welsh  soldiers  round  us.  Even  the  police  had 
all  they  could  do  to  keep  the  men  from  hanging 
on  to  our  car  and  paying  us  compliments  !  We 

204 


MRS.   URNJAMIN    GUINNESS 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

finally  made  a  raid  upon  a  garage  and  got  patched 
up  and  went  plunking  along  through  deserted 
roads  home. 


To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

CLARGES  STREET,  June  5th,  1915. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

You  will  think  it  strange  that  I  have 
lingered  on  here  for  a  week,  and  yet,  business 
aside,  I  am  reluctant  to  go  over  and  take  up  .my 
life.  It  is  not  a  question  of  indecision  this  time, 
it  is  lingering  on  a  threshold,  always  a  sympathetic 
one,  and  which  now  I  feel  I  leave  for  an  indefinite 
period  to  go  into  what  is  both  known  and  un- 
known. Well,  I  must  go,  and  I  leave  to-morrow 
on  what  is  now  a  twelve-hours'  trans-Channel 
journey,  for  instead  of  seven  hours  to  Paris  it  is 
twelve,  and  even  that  is  doing  pretty  well.  There 
is  an  enormous  lot  of  red  tape  about  passports, 
but  nothing  like  so  much  as  there  was,  nor  with 
the  luggage  either,  for  that  matter,  and  the  boats 
run  regularly  twice  a  day. 

Each  day  I  grow  gladder  and  gladder  so  far 

of  this  lonely  experience  and  of  all  it  has  meant 

to   me,   psychologically,   mentally,   and   morally. 

I  can  see  how  in  every  way  I  needed  it,  and  that 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

is  a  great  deal.  I  remember  a  very  beautiful 
verse  in  the  Bible  which  says  :  "In  patience 
possess  ye  your  souls  :  "  and  I  have  often  thought 
that  the  possession  of  one's  soul  was  a  very 
wonderful  thing  and  a  very  necessary  one.  Of 
course,  it  was  probably  in  order  to  do  this  that 
in  the  days  of  old  saints  used  to  go  off  for  periods 
into  the  wilderness  alone.  It  is  not  a  very  agree- 
able thing,  this  coming  face  to  face  with  one's 
own  personality,  as  we  all  have  to  do  from  time  to 
time.  I  suppose  it  is  salutary,  and  therefore  good, 
and  for  many  of  us  absolutely  indispensable. 

Last  night  I  went  to  the  English  version  of 
"  Watch  your  Step."  The  thing  that  interested 
me,  for  the  show  was  nothing  at  all,  was  the 
officers  and  soldiers  in  their  uniforms,  crowds  of 
them.  It  was  very  touching  to  me  to  see  these 
young  men  absorbed  and  amused  by  this  light 
vaudeville  affair.  I  do  not  know  how  many  of 
them  had  been  to  the  front  or  were  going  or  what 
they  knew  of  it,  but  you  would  have  thought 
that  England  was  only  playing  at  war  to  have 
seen  their  careless  expressions  and  their  gaiety. 
I  sat  scarcely  able  to  laugh  at  the  comedy  on  the 
stage.  I  could  hardly  look  at  their  khaki  and  at 
their  accoutrements  without  seeing  them  as  they 
were  carried  in  on  a  hospital  stretcher,  or  taken 
off  in  the  ambulance.  Of  course  having  been  a 
206 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

nurse  does  not  make  me  so  abnormal  that  I 
cannot  also  think  of  the  glorious  part  of  it,  but  it 
is  very  hard  in  these  days  of  active  righting  to 
reconcile  a  lot  of  soldiers  at  a  vaudeville  show, 
laughing  and  splitting  their  sides,  with  what  we 
know  of  war  across  the  Channel. 

The  house  was  so  crowded  that  I  had  the 
last  seat.  All  the  music  halls  are  going  well  I 
think.  Last  night  we  had  another  Zeppelin 
raid,  and  my  hairdresser  says  she  was  up  all 
night  and  out  in  the  streets  in  her  night-dress, 
and  part  of  the  street  she  lives  in  was  destroyed 
by  fire.  Now  this  is  not  told  in  the  papers. 
London  does  not  know  and  the  German  spies 
here  are  being  kept  in  ignorance.  Several  airships 
have  been  over  the  town,  or  rather  the  distant 
quarters  of  the  town,  within  the  last  few  days. 

I  know  you  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  in 
the  last  few  days  I  have  probably  placed  my  war 
letters  with  John  Lane.  It  seems  "  Big  Tremaine  " 
sold  fairly  well  here — considering  the  times,  very 
well — so  that  is  better  news  than  I  had  before 
about  it. 

After  the  play  last  night  I  walked  home  at 
twelve  o'clock  from  Leicester  Square  to  my 
lodgings  quite  alone  through  these  dimly-lit 
streets,  and  when  I  came  in  I  sat  here  smoking 
and  thinking  until  long  after  one,  and  in  the 
207 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

interval   I   wrote   the   enclosed.     What   do  you 
think  of  it  ? 

The  shops  are  full  of  war  paraphernalia.  How 
they  make  your  heart  twist,  to  think  where  those 
military  beds  will  lie  and  how  all  those  objects 
gotten  up  with  so  much  science,  taste,  and  care 
will  be  strewn  on  foreign  fields,  and  if  they  do 
come  home  again  what  marks  they  will  bear  ! 

There  is  not  one  thing  about  the  whole  ensemble 
that  is  not  picturesque,  romantic,  and  with 
elements  of  beauty  in  it.  Uniforms,  accoutre- 
ments, all  that  goes  with  the  big  military  game 
has  so  much  colour.  And  the  Scotch  soldiers 
in  their  plaids,  you  cannot  think  how  stunning 
they  are,  and  too  picturesque  to  be  true.  You 
cannot  believe  your  eyes  when  you  see  these 
very  things  before  your  face  suggestive  of  song 
and  story  and  fiction,  and  romance,  and  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  believe  that  any  of  it  has 
anything  to  do  with  the  grim,  stern  horror  of 
blood  and  smoke  and  death. 

Ever  yours, 

M. 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

PARIS,  June  yth,  1915- 

...  I  must  tell  you  about  an  agreeable  inter- 
view with  John  Lane,  the  celebrated  publisher. 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  went  to  see  him  in  his  little  old-time  office  in 
Vigo  Street.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  such 
things  exist  unchanged,  in  these  modern  days, 
in  the  heart  of  a  big  city.  There,  in  the  room 
where  he  received  me,  the  Saturday  Review 
was  born  and  lived  for  very  many  years.  There, 
in  the  same  room,  Macaulay  wrote  part  of  the 
History  of  England.  I  struck  a  knocker  instead 
of  pushing  an  electric  bell  as  I  entered.  .  .  . 
I  had  given  Mr.  Lane  my  War  Letters  to  read, 
and  I  believe  one  of  his  readers  was  favourable  : 
he  hadn't  heard  from  the  other  one.  I  imagine, 
though  Mr.  Lane  did  not  tell  me  so,  that  the 
first  criticism  was  fair. 

You  have  often  accused  me  of  being  vain, 
and  it  will  amuse  you  vastly  to  imagine  the 
blow  when,  after  gazing  at  me  for  a  few  minutes, 
John  Lane,  one  of  the  most  important  publishers 
in  the  world,  asked  me  in  his  gentle  voice  :  "  Did 
you  ever  write  anything  before  ?  "  Even  in 
that  moment  of  fallen  pride,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  what  a  gleam  of  humour  would  come 
to  your  eyes  if  you  could  have  seen  me  taken 
down  like  that.  I  did  not  tell  him  that  I  had 
written  twenty  books  and  done  not  badly  at  the 
job  in  a  financial  way  for  fourteen  years  !  I 
asked  him  humbly  :  "  Do  you  really  mean  to 
tell  me,  Mr.  Lane,  that  you  have  never  heard 
209  o 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

of  any  of  my  books  ?  "  He  thought  that  Bessie 
Le  Roux  was  "  Marie  Van  Vorst  "  and  that  it 
was  a  nom  de  guerre,  and  that  she  had  married 
a  French  writer,  and  that  I  was  just  an  unknown 
sister  who  had  written  a  few  letters  home  during 
the  war !  .  .  .  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  meeting 
Mr.  Lane,  who  was  charming. 

Best  love, 
MARIE. 

To  Mrs.  F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N.J. 

PARIS,  June  8th,  1915. 

DEAR  MARY, 

I  came  away  from  London  at  half-past 
eight  on  Sunday  morning  to  attempt  my  fifth 
Channel  crossing  since  the  war  began,  and  I  came 
alone,  leaving  my  maid  to  go  down  to  Gloucester  to 
see  her  people.  The  boat  was  crowded  with 
soldiers  and  officers. 

England  seemed  far  more  serious  and  awake 
than  when  I  left,  and  to  appreciate  the  situation 
to  the  fullest,  as  far  as  I  could  see.  Of  course 
they  asked  themselves  and  me  every  minute 
what  America  was  going  to  do,  and  one  was 
pretty  safe  in  feeling  that  the  first  question  a 
person  would  put  to  you  when  they  met  you  was 
just  that :  "  What  is  America  going  to  do  ?  " 
I'll  be  switched  if  I  could  tell  them  or  make 
any  kind  of  a  satisfactory  answer.  It  is  all  too 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

dulling  and  strange,  and  ever  since  I  have  touched 
the  shores  here,  I  seem  to  feel  with  the  utmost 
intensity  the  presence  of  those  struggling,  con- 
tending masses  all  along  those  far-flung  lines, 
east  and  west.  The  whole  world  seems  a  heca- 
tomb, a  honey-comb  of  destruction. 

I  don't  know  what  news  you  have  of  the 
Zeppelin  raids  on  London,  but  they  were  serious 
to  the  extent  of  destroying  several  houses  and 
some  lives.  Even  the  latest  vanity  bag  has  a 
changed  aspect  now,  and  in  it  are  sold  little 
"  tampons "  of  wadding,  chemically  prepared 
to  clap  over  the  mouth  as  a  preventive  against 
the  fumes.  You  can  get  all  kinds  of  war  insur- 
ances and  risk  insurances.  I  don't  doubt  that 
you  could  buy  an  insurance  against  marriage  or 
a  temptation  to  it,  or  anything  you  liked  !  They 
say  that  when  the  war  is  over  polygamy  will  be 
winked  at ;  so  there  will  be  a  chance  for  every 
one.  I  dare  say  that  a  lot  of  forlorn  spinsters 
will  feel  that  even  war  has  its  compensations  ! 

Ever  yours, 
M. 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

PARIS,  June  gth,  1915. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

I  left  London  reluctantly.     My  week 
there,  in  those  desolate  lodgings,  interested  me, 
211 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

although  I  was  so  lonely  that  it  weighed  upon  me 
like  a  cloud.  Here,  on  arriving,  the  contrast  was 
great  between  the  shore  I  left  and  the  shore  I 
found.  The  motor  ambulances  at  Boulogne 
were  thick — rows  and  rows  of  them  were  lined 
up  along  the  railroad  quays,  and  many  military 
motors,  just  driven  down  from  the  front,  were 
covered  with  the  dust  of  the  road.  I  had  thought 
of  going  to  Lady  Hadfield's  base  hospital  at 
Boulogne,  but  decided  to  come  straight  through 
to  Paris,  which  I  did.  I  arrived  at  7  o'clock, 
to  be  met  by  no  one,  as  the  train  was  an  hour 
and  a  half  too  early,  and  I  got  all  my  luggage 
through  alone,  took  a  Gare  du  Nord  omnibus, 
and  piled  on  my  cases  with  the  wool  and  grape- 
fruit and  the  Victrola  I  bought  myself  in  New 
York.  Even  if  everybody  goes  to  war,  and  stocks 
go  down,  and  nobody  buys  my  stories,  I  can  sit 
in  an  attic  room  and  listen  to  the  old  tunes  ! 

I  am  sitting  here  in  my  study  this  afternoon, 
and  in  front  of  me  is  the  big  war  map,  where 
unfortunately  the  line  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
pushed  back  as  far  as  we  want  it ;  and  I  really 
think  that  it  is  the  first  peaceful  moment  I  have 
had  since  I  arrived.  ...  I  am  going  to  change 
this  room,  and  so  I  look  around  upon  it  now  with 
affection.  The  memories  of  this  little  study  have 
made  it  peculiarly  dear  to  me  and  peculiarly 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

sacred,  and  I  hate  to  give  it  up.  Nevertheless, 
perhaps  something  more  meaningful  will  make 
the  new  study  dearer  yet.  I  hope  so.  Here  I 
wrote  "  Fairfax  and  His  Pride,"  which  I  still 
think  my  best  novel,  without  any  doubt.  Here 
I  wrote  the  most  effective  part  of  "  The  Successful 
Wife,"  which  I  think  will  some  day  be  reprinted 
and  sold.  Here  I  wrote  my  "  River  "  articles — 
every  one  of  them,  with  one  exception.  (I  only 
mention  the  more  important  things.)  Out  of 
this  window,  how  often  you  and  I  have  watched 
the  illuminations  for  the  Fourteenth  of  July,  in 
the  heat  of  summer ;  and  how  often  heard  the 
ringing  of  the  old  clock,  marking  happy  hours  ; 
and  how  often  seen  the  moon  rise  over  the  opposite 
roofs  !  And  now  the  Place  below  is  dark  at  night 
and  the  lamps,  like  muted  violins,  are  softened 
by  their  heavy  iron  shades. 

I  think  with  especial  pleasure  of  the  writing 
of  "  Big  Tremaine "  here,  and  the  beginning 
of  "  Mary  M  or  eland  " — an  entire  short  story, 
written  one  January,  when,  as  usual,  I  was  alone. 
That  was  a  very  interesting  month — one  of  the 
most  delightful  I  ever  spent  in  my  life — alone 
as  I  was  ;  and  I  shall  always  look  back  upon  it 
with  peculiar  pleasure.  I  read  Dante,  with  Miss 
Casabianca,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life ;  and  I 
wrote  a  great  deal  of  "  Tremaine."  There  was  a 
213 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

charm  in  those  undisturbed  days  and  a  mental 
utility  ;  and  later  in  the  spring,  under  the  strongest 
inspiration  for  work  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life 
— and  by  far  the  most  delightful — I  wrote  the 
close  of  "  Big  Tremaine,"  the  most  successful 
book  I  ever  wrote. 

Perhaps  it  will  not  bore  you  to  read  these 
reminiscences.  I  have  always  wanted  to  linger 
over  them  and  bring  them  agreeably  forth ;  and 
I  am  sure  your  eye  will  fall  kindly  upon  them  and 
that  you  will  read  them  with  sympathy.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  want  to  change  my  study,  nor  even 
write  this  letter,  without  marking  its  tribute  to 
you.  I  think  you  will  understand  the  dedication 
of  "  Mary  Moreland  "  ;  and  also  that  you  realise 
that  I  can  never  forget  your  entrance  and  advent 
here,  as  you  used  to  come,  day  after  day,  evening 
after  evening,  expected  and  unexpected,  and 
open  the  study  door  and  disturb  my  work ;  and 
cross  the  Place,  expected  and  unexpected,  turning 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Bourgogne  and  waving 
up  to  me  a  white-gloved  hand.  How  many 
times  I  have  stood  here  and  watched  you  come 
and  watched  you  go,  in  the  yellow  motor  that 
now  is  driving  to  and  fro  in  Paris  with  a  Red 
Cross  flag  flying  from  it,  at  the  behest  of  the 
French  Government !  The  motor  always  came 
too  soon  then,  whenever  it  came  ;  and  I  can  see 
214 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

now  how  you  used  to  put  up  the  curtain  of  the 
back  window  and  wave  to  me  again.  It  would 
not  be  fair  not  to  say  what  an  impulse  your 
friendship  and  companionship  gave  during  all 
those  months  to  all  I  did  and  was.  I  do  not 
dwell  upon  my  debt  to  you,  for  I  think  you  must 
know.  .  .  .  Now,  in  returning  to  this  almost 
deserted  city,  where  the  boulevards  are  like 
country  streets,  where  cabs  and  taxis  are  sparse 
in  comparison  with  the  crowded  old  days  ;  where, 
in  spite  of  courage  and  cheer,  the  place  seems  sad 
and  changed — here  there  is  no  one  to  come  and 
either  inspire  or  disturb.  So  why  not,  since 
any  change  is  good,  they  say — why  not  change 
the  study  ? 

Ever  yours,  dear, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Morawetz. 

June  i3th,  1915. 

DEAR  VIOLET, 

The  night  I  came  home,  I  sent  my 
luggage  to  the  house  by  the  bus  and  took  a  taxi 
and  came  along  later.  Everything  was  in  apple- 
pie  order  ;  I  can't  tell  you  how  sweet  it  all  looked. 
Among  my  ornaments,  here  and  there,  were  scat- 
tered Belle  and  Mollie's  things  from  the  Hotel  du 
Rhin,  and  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  see  them  there. 
215 


I  want  to  mention  especially  the  beauty  and  grace 
of  the  flowers  everywhere — sweet  peas  and  a 
frail,  delicate  little  white  flower,  a  sort  of  meadow- 
sweet, very  ethereal  and  lovely,  and  all  arranged 
with  great  taste  and  charm.  They  were  wonder- 
fully appealing  to  me,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
after  that  long  strain  of  the  sea  and  the  return 
— these  frail,  beautiful  things,  which  although 
speechless,  were  living.  I  shall  remember  them 
always. 

Word  met  me  here  that  I  was  not  to  go  to 
my  mother,  as  she  was  too  tired  to  see  me  at  that 
time  of  night ;  and  as  you  can  imagine,  I  could 
not  go  to  bed,  or  even  remain  at  rest.  So  I  took 
a  taxi  and  drove  immediately  to  Madame  de  S. 
Many  times,  when  I  have  gone  there,  I  have 
driven  up  just  behind  the  taxi  of  Henry 
Dadvisard  and  seen  him  spring  out  and  go  in, 
gaily,  quickly,  with  the  energy  and  vitality  which 
characterised  him,  in  his  bright  uniform  of  the 
Cuirassiers,  with  his  high  boots  and  jingling  spurs. 
How  often  have  I  seen  him  there  !  He  seemed 
an  integral  part  of  the  place.  Now  I  realised 
that  he  would  never  come  there  any  more — never 
— and  that  all  he  meant  of  strength  and  manly 
courage  and  life  was  gone  for  ever.  Wasted  ? 
Spilled  ?  Lost  ?  Dispersed  ?  Who  can  say  ? 
Qui  vive  ?  Oh,  how  devoutly  I  pray  that  we 
216 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

may  be  able  to  answer :  "La  France — quand- 
meme  "  !  .  .  .  For  some  reason  or  other,  I  was 
not  loth  to  go  in,  because  I  know  my  friend  so 
well,  her  courage  and  her  great  soul  and  her 
great  heart ;  but  it  was  with  very  deep  feeling 
that  I  mounted  those  stairs,  my  dear — past  the 
clock  marking  the  eternal  hours,  the  clock  that 
on  that  first  of  August  night  had  marked  his 
coming  and  whose  sightless  face  had  seen  him  go 
out  of  the  door  for  ever.  Over  and  over  again, 
I  have  mounted  those  stairs,  Mme.  de  S.  between 
Henry  and  myself,  going  up  slowly,  leaning  on 
him — all  three  of  us  gaily  talking,  as  we  went 
to  the  salon  after  dinner.  From  henceforth  she 
goes  up  them  and  on  into  life  more  completely 
alone  than  ever.  ...  I  found  her  sitting,  as  I 
have  found  her  sitting  countless  times,  in  the 
dimly  lighted  room,  her  knitting  in  her  hands, 
and  close  to  her  knee  the  Vicomtesse  de  Bresson, 
pale  as  death,  in  her  deep  widow's  weeds,  her  eyes 
full  of  unshed  tears,  knitting  too  for  the  soldiers. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Both  women 
were  perfectly  quiet  and  perfectly  controlled, 
and  we  sat  talking  together  about  general  things 
for  an  hour  and  no  personalities  were  mentioned  ; 
but  Mme.  de  Bresson's  face  was  a  tragedy. 

The  Vicomte  de  Bresson,  though  a  brilliant 
soldier,  hated  war.     He  was  an  eminently  peaceful 
217 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

man,  born  and  bred  to  the  soldier's  profession, 
with  a  high  commission  which  he  had  filled  for 
years.  He  had  resigned  from  the  Army  because 
he  hated  army  life  and  war ;  but  the  moment 
that  war  was  declared  he  volunteered  and  led  a 
whole  brigade.  Advantage  was  taken,  I  believe, 
of  his  very  unusual  courage,  because  it  seems  that 
the  orders  given  him  were  to  perform  a  feat  which 
he  himself  knew  was  impossible,  and  he  said  so. 
He  said  to  his  superior  officer :  "On  ne  peut 
pas  le  faire.  J'irai,  mais  la  tache  est  impossible/' 
So  he  went,  and  he  fell  in  the  enemies'  lines,  and 
there  lay  two  days,  his  soldiers  being  able  to  see 
the  body  from  a  little  eminence.  Can  you  vaguely 
think  what  that  means  to  a  woman,  to  know  that 
her  husband  lay  upon  a  battlefield,  in  the  enemy's 
lines,  and  that  his  body,  under  the  circumstances, 
could  be  a  prey  to  whatever  mutilations  those 
horrible  creatures  chose  to  practice — for  they  do  I 
That's  all  that  Anna  knows — that's  all.  .  .  . 

With  Henry  Dadvisard  the  case  is  quite 
different.  Of  his  own  accord,  he  left  the  cavalry 
and  joined  the  infantry  and  went  into  the  most 
dangerous  part  of  the  fight.  Five  captains  had 
been  killed  successively,  and  he  was  the  sixth. 
Mme.  de  S.  says — and  I  assure  you  that  the 
way  she  told  it  to  me  that  night  was  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  things  I  ever  heard  in  my  life — 
218 


VICOMTE   EDGAR    DE    BRESSON 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

she  says  that  for  days  before  his  letters  to  her  had 
been  extraordinarily  spiritual,  and  that  she  knew 
that  little  by  little  he  was  detaching  himself  from 
life.  He  seemed  to  have  left  it  all,  and  its  interests 
completely  behind.  It  is  a  great  grief  to  her  to 
feel  that  he  was  surrounded,  those  last  days,  not 
by  his  own  regiment,  hi  which  he  was  adored,  but 
by  comparative  strangers.  She  believes  that  the 
day  he  went  out,  he  knew  he  was  going  out  to 
die.  The  ground  was  full  of  holes  torn  up  by 
the  shells,  and  the  sortie  which  he  had  been 
ordered  to  make  was  full  of  the  most  dreadful 
danger.  They  say  he  led  his  charge  brilliantly, 
springing  like  a  flame  from  place  to  place,  where 
he  could  find  a  foothold.  Finally,  he  led  his  men 
on  his  hands  and  knees,  as  it  was  unsafe  to  stand 
erect ;  and  he  was  kneeling  on  one  knee,  with  his 
sword  raised,  when  he  was  shot  through  the 
heart.  He  was  picked  up  by  his  men  and  carried 
away,  and  she  has  the  joy  of  knowing  that  he 
was  buried  in  a  private  vault  in  some  little 
cemetery.  That  joy  is  hers.  .  .  .  She  told  me 
that  she  was  sitting  in  her  bedroom  quietly  at 
her  desk — she  hadn't  heard  from  him  for  several 
days — and  the  mail  was  brought  to  her.  She  had 
given  him  some  envelopes  in  her  own  hand- 
writing, addressed  to  herself  and  stamped,  in 
which  a  slip  was  to  be  put  if  he  were  wounded 
219 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

— she  never  dared  think  of  anything  else — and 
one  of  these  came  to  her.  Well,  it  was  a  shock, 
but  she  tore  it  open,  without  dreaming  what 
its  news  might  be,  and  there  she  read  the  calm 
announcement  from  a  priest  that  he  was  dead. 
She  told  me  that  it  was  days  before  she  shed  a 
tear,  and  she  went  on  calmly  about  her  affairs, 
telling  his  family,  as  she  was  the  only  one  who 
knew  anything  about  it.  But  she  never  speaks 
of  him,  and  the  fact  that  she  could  tell  me  all 
this  was  a  very  great  tribute  to  our  love  and 
friendship.  ...  I  can't  imagine  him  dead.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  vital  and  brilliant  men  I 
ever  knew,  and  he  was  only  one  of  many  of  the 
flower  of  France  that  have  been  cut  down  in  this 
hellish  harvest. 

Yesterday  I  went  into  Rollet's  to  buy  a  few 
caramels  to  take  to  Mother,  and  that  handsome 
young  blonde  girl  that  used  to  wait  on  us  served 
me.  I  noticed  that  she  was  in  black  and  I  hardly 
dared  to  ask  her,  but  she  said  her  husband — and 
stopped,  holding  the  box  of  caramels  in  her 
hand.  She  was  perfectly  beautiful  as  she  stood 
there — one  of  the  prettiest  women,  I  think,  I 
have  ever  seen — with  that  pallor  that  comes  to 
those  that  have  watched  with  the  greatest  grief, 
and  those  quiet  courageous,  pathetic  eyes  of 
women  who  control  their  tears  because  they  are 
220 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  wives  of  soldiers.  "  Only  twenty-seven, 
madame,"  she  said,  "  and  such  a  lovely  boy." 
And  then  she  said  with  the  deepest  feeling. 
"  It  simply  means  that  I  shall  mourn  all  my  life." 
She  has  a  little  son ;  so  has  Anna  de  Bresson  ; 
and  the  children  must  be  a  great  consolation. 
You  see  it  everywhere — the  same,  and  yet 
eternally  different,  as  each  woman  bears  her 
peculiar  burden. 

I  think  I  have  written  you  all  my  news  and  up 
to  the  present  everything  that  has  impressed  me. 

I  went  up  to  the  American  Ambulance  to-day 
(Tuesday).  It  is  very  beautiful  and  more  luxurious 
and  more  like  a  picture-book  than  ever.  Mrs. 
Munroe,  who  has  stood  on  her  feet,  with  I  don't 
believe  much  respite,  for  ten  months,  has  a 
varicose  vein  and  is  now  doing  her  work  lying 
in  an  invalid's  chair.  And  Vera  Arkwright  is 
assistant  to  Dr.  Blake  and  doing,  I  believe, 
magnificent  work. 

Best  love, 

M. 

Madame  Le  Roux,  New  York. 

PARIS,  June  isth,  1915. 

DEAR  BESSIE, 

Coming  down  to-day  from  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  home,  I  counted  36  women  in  widow's 
221 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

weeds,  and  then  stopped,  as  it  made  me  too 
sad  to  go  on.  With  two  exceptions,  they  were 
all  very  young ;  several  had  little  children 
with  them,  and  most  of  them  were  pretty.  One 
of  the  popular  posters  is  la  Republique  sowing 
from  her  apron  with  a  full  hand  into  the  furrows 
of  the  land.  Many  springs  will  have  to  come, 
and  many  summers,  and  many  harvests,  before 
France  can  fill  her  lists  again. 

The  son  of  the  concierge  is  back  for  seven 
days.  He  was  injured,  by  a  grenade  explosion, 
in  the  liver ;  but  in  spite  of  that  injury  and  his 
six  weeks  in  the  hospital,  he  is  sun-browned 
and  a  man.  He  went  away  a  puny  little  clerk 
from  the  "  Samaritaine  "  ;  he  has  come  back  a 
strong,  sturdy  soldier.  Those  who  come  back 
will  have  learnt  much,  will  have  broadened  and 
deepened  and  strengthened ;  but  the  streets 
are  full  of  mutilated  and  maimed  men,  of  sightless 
and  disfigured  men,  witnesses  to  the  horrible 
sequence  of  war. 

Lady  K.  told  such  a  beautiful  thing,  out 
at  Bridget's,  that  I  forgot  to  tell  you  before. 
She  said  that  it  was  bruited  in  England  that 
there  had  been  a  miracle  wrought  when  von 
Kluck's  army  so  unexpectedly  turned  back 
from  Paris,  which  without  doubt  they  could  have 
taken.  She  said  that  it  was  rumoured — and  not 

222 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

only  in  the  ranks,  but  among  higher  men — that 
there  appeared  in  the  sky  a  singular  phenomenon, 
and  that  the  German  prisoners  bore  witness 
that  a  cavalcade  like  heavenly  archers  suddenly 
filled  the  heavens  and  shot  down  upon  the 
Germans  a  rain  of  deadly  darts.  As  you  know, 
this  was  long  before  the  use  of  any  asphyxiating 
gas  or  turpinite ;  but  on  the  field  were  found 
hundreds  of  Germans,  stone  dead,  immovable, 
who  had  fallen  without  any  apparent  cause. 
You  remember  the  armies  of  the  old  Scriptures 
that  "  the  breath  of  the  Lord  withered  away." 

Lady  K.  said  that  the  rumour  that  the 
woods  of  Compiegne  were  full  of  troops  when  the 
Germans  made  that  famous  retreat  was  absolutely 
untrue.  There  were  no  troops  in  the  forest,  and 
what  they  saw  were,  again,  celestial  soldiers. 

No  doubt  these  tales  come  always  in  the 
history  of  war.  But,  my  dear,  how  beautiful 
they  are — how  much  more  heavenly  and  inspired 
than  the  beatings  on  the  slavish  backs  of  the 
German  Uhlans,  of  the  half-drunken,  brutish 
hordes  !  Everywhere  is  the  same  uplifting  spirit. 
When  I  speak  of  Paris  being  sad,  it  is  ;  but  it  is 
not  depressing.  There  is  a  difference.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  absence  of  those  I  love,  I  would  rather 
be  here  than  anywhere.  In  church  on  Sunday, 
the  Bishop  said  that  at  one  of  the  services  near 
223 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  firing  line,  when  he  asked  the  question  :  "  How 
many  of  the  men  here  have  felt,  since  they  came 
out,  a  stirring  in  their  hearts,  an  awakening  of 
the  spirit  ?  "  as  far  as  he  could  see,  every  hand 
was  raised.  And  men  have  gone  home  to  England , 
without  arms  and  without  legs,  maimed  for  life, 
and  have  been  heard  to  say  that  in  spite  of  their 
material  anguish  they  regretted  nothing,  for  they 
had  found  their  souls. 

Well,  it's  impossible,  with  stories  such  as  these, 
to  think  of  anything  but  ultimate  victory  on  our 
side.  Contrast  it  with  the  German  spirit,  with 
the  hymns  of  hate,  with  the  yellings  and  scream- 
ings  of  that  press,  calling  for  more  Lusitanias, 
calling  for  the  wreck  of  the  Orduna,  demanding 
more  innocent  sacrifice.  Take  the  faces  of  Joffre 
and  the  other  generals  and  put  them  alongside 
von  Hindenburg  and  the  Crown  Prince.  .  .  . 

The  French  Army  has  now  got  its  new  uniform. 
It  is  called  bleu  d'horizon.  It  is  a  light,  delicate 
blue,  the  colour  of  Faith,  the  colour  of  the  sky 
that  is  so  beautiful  in  tone  over  France  always  ; 
and  its  advantage  is  that  after  nightfall  not  one 
man  can  be  seen  at  150  yards.  This  is  the 
only  army  of  which  that  can  be  said.  There 
is  something  particularly  agreeable  to  me  in 
the  thought  of  that  blue  army — the  colour  of 
the  Sacred  Maid.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  all 
224 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

credulous  and  believing  France  thinks  that 
the  country  is  being  saved  by  Jeanne  d'Arc. 
You  hear  them  say  it  everywhere.  Just  think 
of  it,  in  the  twentieth  century,  my  dear,  when 
the  war  is  being  fought  in  the  air  and  under  the 
sea,  by  machines  so  modern  that  only  the  latest 
invention  can  triumph  !  Think  of  it,  and  then 
consider  that  there  remains  enough  of  spiritual 
faith  to  believe  that  the  salvation  of  a  country 
comes  through  prayer. 

Yesterday  I  wrote  for  some  time  and  rough- 
hewed  a  plan  for  "  Carmichel,"  up  to  the  very 
last  chapter.  I  hope  that  it  will  be  helpful. 

Extraordinary  things  happen  in  war  time. 
The  wife  of  one  of  the  officers  of  General  F.'s 
etat  major  was  allowed  to  visit  him  at  the  front 
occasionally.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  one 
of  her  husband's  fellow  officers  said  to  her  :  "  Ah, 
madame,  how  I  wish  I  had  a  wife  or  at  least  a 
sweetheart — some  one  that  I  could  write  to  and 
who  would  take  an  interest  in  me  !  " — "  Well, 
why  don't  you  get  engaged  ?  "  the  lady  asked. 
— "  I  don't  know  any  one  to  get  engaged  to  !  " — 
"  What  sort  of  a  girl  would  you  like  to  marry  ?  " 

asked  Mme.  B sympathetically. — "  Well," 

replied  the  officer,  "  she  should  be  tall,  a  brunette, 
intelligent,  and  a  Dreyfusarde." — "  I  know  the 
very  girl !  "  exclaimed  the  lady  ;  "  she's  a  friend 
225  p 


of  mine  and  I  shall  bring  her  photo  to  show  you 
next  time  I  come."  She  kept  her  word  and  the 
young  officer  was  enchanted  with  the  picture 
and  promptly  fell  in  love  with  the  girl  it  repre- 
sented. The  latter,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
heard  all  about  the  forlorn  officer  from  her  friend 
and  conceived  a  great  interest  in  him.  They 
began  a  correspondence.  Everything  went 

beautifully,  and  after  a  time  Captain asked 

the  General  for  two  days'  leave  to  go  to  Paris 
and  get  engaged  !  The  young  people  had  never 
previously  set  eyes  on  each  other ;  but  they 
both  fell  madly  in  love  when  they  met  and  the 
formal  betrothal  took  place,  after  which  the 
happy  officer  returned  to  his  duties  at  the 
front ! 


To  Mr.  F,  B.  Van  Vorst,  Hackensack,  N.J. 

PARIS,  June  i7th,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  FREDERICK, 

In  regard  to  the  trophies  of  war  of 
which  you  speak,  I  bought  for  you  yesterday  a 
German  sword  from  the  field  of  battle,  a  German 
helmet,  a  German  cartridge  case,  and  a  German 
service  cap.  Of  course,  Allies'  things  would  be 
difficult  to  find.  These  are  all  picturesque. 
I  am  going  to  make  you  a  little  collection  of 
226 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

souvenirs  and  send  them  over  to  you  by  express. 
Paris  is  full  of  pretty  "  documents  "  of  the  war. 
The  big  powder  manufacturer,  Mr.  Dupont  of 
the  South,  has  a  cousin  here — one  of  the  nurses 
at  the  Ambulance — and  she  has  bought  for  him 
a  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  trophies  ;  but  you 
can  imagine  that  he  wanted  shells,  ammunition, 
and  so  forth.  I  forgot  to  say  that  this  little 
group  included  a  "  Soixante-quinze,"  exploded 
— very  pretty.  You  can  put  it  in  the  drawing- 
room  as  an  ornament.  Also  some  bits  of  obus, 
of  which  you  can  make  paper  weights — all  in 
the  $20.  I  am  sorry  they  are  German. 

It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  the  other 
evening  Mrs.  Waddington — the  niece  of  the  famous 
Mrs.  Waddington — spent  the  evening  with  me  at 
Madame  de  S.'s.  She  had  just  been  to  the 
front  to  see  her  husband,  who  is  a  Colonel  and 
a  very  brilliant  officer.  He  had  sent  for  her  to 
come,  as  he  had  a  day's  leave.  Think  of  it — 
she  had  not  seen  him  since  the  2nd  of  August ! 
How  she  ran  to  him,  figuratively  speaking ! 
He  is  in  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  front. 
The  French  soldiers  are  not  given  the  leave  that 
the  English  are,  as  you  know.  There  are  almost 
no  home-comings.  Few  of  these  women  have 
been  able  to  see  their  husbands,  unless  they  are 
wounded.  When  she  got  there,  after  rather  a 
227 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

perilous  essay,  this  big  bronzed  soldier  came  to 
meet  her  at  the  railway  station,  and  he  only  had 
an  hour.  Think  of  it !  She  told  us  about  it 
so  quietly  and  so  bravely,  her  delicate  pale  face — 
for  she  is  a  great  invalid — illumined  by  the 
patriotism  and  the  courage  they  all  show.  She 
had  no  complaint  to  make  ;  she  was  glad  of  that 
precious  hour.  She  said  that  coming  back  in 
the  train  a  strange  officer,  who  had  a  slight  wound 
and  was  being  sent  to  Paris  with  despatches — 
a  perfect  stranger  to  her — sat  down  by  her  side. 
He  said  :  "  Pardon,  madame  ;  vous  m'excuserez 
si  je  vous  parle  ?  Je  n'ai  pas  echange  un  mot 
avec  une  femme  depuis  le  jour  de  la  mobilisation 
— pas  un  mot !  "  He  had  not  been  one  single 
day  away  from  his  service  since  August.  She 
said  that  he  talked  all  the  three  hours  to  Paris 
— feverishly,  eagerly ;  so  glad  to  be  human  once 
again  :  and  although  she  had  never  seen  him 
before,  she  felt  as  though  she  had  known  him 
always  by  the  time  they  got  to  the  station.  And 
at  the  end  of  their  little  trip  together,  he  gave 
her  a  little  aluminium  ring  that  his  soldiers 
had  made  in  the  trenches  out  of  a  bit  of  shell 
casing.  He  said  that  they  grow  perfectly  reckless 
of  danger  in  those  long  hours  and  days  of  trench 
life,  and  that  he  has  to  punish  his  men  for  getting 
up  out  of  the  trenches  and  walking  right  into  the 

228 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

fire  to  pick  up  a  bit  of  metal  with  which  to  work 
to  while  away  the  tedious  hours. 

One  of  the  touching  things  that  Madame  de 
S.  said  to  me  about  her  adopted  son  who 
was  killed  in  April  was  :  "I  am  sure  he  knew 
that  he  was  going  to  his  death  that  day.  I  feel 
so  sensible  of  his  great  soul-loneliness  on  the  eve 
of  that  terrible  battle,  when  I  am  certain  he  felt 
that  he  was  to  lay  down  his  life."  He  was  one 
of  the  most  courageous  and  brilliant  officers — 
a  born  warrior  and  soldier,  and  one  of  the  hardest 
workers  I  ever  knew.  It  seems  that  the  night 
before  the  engagement,  he  came  into  his  General's 
quarters  on  the  plea  of  looking  at  one  of  the  maps, 
and  the  General  told  Madame  de  S.  that  as 
he  went  out  he  lingered  on  the  threshold,  and  the 
General  said  to  him  :  "  Bonne  chance  !  mon 
enfant."  And  the  General  said  to  her :  "I 
know  that  he  did  not  come  to  look  at  the  map. 
He  came  to  make  a  silent  farewell."  Of  course, 
it  is  peculiarly  touching  to  a  woman  who  loved 
him  to  feel  that  what  he  wanted  was  the  human 
sympathy,  the  human  touch,  as  he  was  going  out 
into  the  unknown.  The  field  kodaks  that  she 
has  of  him,  which  she  showed  me  last  night, 
show  him  so  changed,  so  aged  and  weary  after 
those  long  hard  months  of  service,  that  I  personally 
would  hardly  have  known  him. 
229 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Many  touching  little  things  have  been  found 
in  the  memorandum  book  that  Henry  carried 
always,  and  the  following  little  lines  he  had  written 
there  the  night  before  he  was  killed.  His  pen 
stopped  with  the  last  words — 

"  I  offer  with  all  my  heart  to  God  the  sacrifice 
of  my  life  for  my  beloved  country  and  for  the 
protection  of  those  I  love,  in  order  to  repair 
by  my  personal  sacrifice  any  ill  I  may  ever  have 
done  to  my  neighbour.  I  thank  without  ceasing 
every  one  who  has  ever  been  good  to  me  ;  I  pray 
for  them  in  going,  and  I  in  turn  beseech  them  to 
pray  for  me." 

My  dear  brother,  I  make  these  quotations 
because  they  give  you  a  little  idea  of  the  heart 
and  soul  and  character  of  the  best  of  young 
France.  It  speaks  well  for  a  country  that  she 
can  nurture  sons  like  this.  .  .  . 

That's  all.    Best  love,  dear,  dear  Frederick. 
Your  devoted  sister, 

M. 

To  Mrs.  Louis  Stoddard,  N.Y. 

June  25th,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  MOLLY, 

Mme.  de  S.  told  me  last  night  that 
once  during  the  last  year  she  had  a  little  spray 
of  blossoms  that  had  been  blessed  by  the  Pope, 
230 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  in  writing  to  Henry  on  the  field,  she  sent 
him  a  little  bit  of  green — a  tiny  leaf  pinned  on 
a  loving  letter.  When  she  looked  through  the 
uniform  sent  back  to  her,  a  few  days  ago, 
in  his  pocket  was  this  little  card,  all  stained 
with  his  blood.  This  card,  with  her  few  loving 
words,  was  all  he  carried  on  him  into  that  sacred 
field.  I  must  not  forget  the  belt  he  wore  around 
him,  which  she  had  made  with  her  own  hands, 
and  it  contained  some  money  and  in  one  of  the 
folds  of  the  chamois  was  a  prayer  that  she  had 
written  out  for  him.  The  paper  was  so  worn  with 
reading  and  unfolding  and  folding  that  it  was  like 
something  used  by  the  years. 

All  the  night  before  he  went  to  that  great 
battle,  he  spent  in  prayer.  His  aide  told  Mme. 
de  S.  that  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes.  They 
say  that  if  he  could  have  been  taken  immediately 
from  the  field,  he  would  have  been  saved,  for  he 
bled  to  death. 

I  only  suppose  that  you  will  be  interested  in 
these  details  because  they  mark  the  going  out  of 
such  a  brilliant  life,  and  it  is  the  intimate  story 
of  one  soldier  who  has  laid  down  his  life,  after 
months  and  months  of  fighting  and  self-abnegation 
and  loneliness,  on  that  distant  field. 

From  the  time  he  left  her  in  August  until  his 
death,  he  had  never  seen  any  of  his  family — not 
231 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

a  soul.  I  want  to  tell  you  the  way  she  said  good- 
bye to  him,  for  I  never  knew  it  until  last  night. 
She  had  expected  him  to  lunch — imagine ! — 
and  received  the  news  by  telephone  that  he  was 
leaving  his  "  quartier  "  in  an  hour.  She  rushed 
there  to  see  the  Cuirassiers,  mounted,  in  their 
service  uniform,  the  helmets  all  covered  with 
khaki,  clattering  out  of  the  yard.  She  sat  in 
the  motor  and  he  came  out  to  her,  all  ready  to 
go ;  and  they  said  good-bye,  there  in  the  motor, 
he  sitting  by  her  side,  holding  her  hands.  She 
said  he  looked  then  like  the  dead — so  grave. 
You  know  he  was  a  soldier,  passionately  devoted 
to  his  career.  He  had  made  all  the  African 
campaign  and  had  an  illustrious  record.  She 
says  he  asked  her  for  her  blessing  and  she  lightly 
touched  the  helmet  covered  with  khaki  and  gave 
it  him.  And  neither  shed  a  tear.  And  he  kissed 
her  good-bye.  She  never  saw  him  again.  .  .  . 

She  said  that  his  General  told  her  as  follows  : 
"  The  night  before  the  engagement,  Henry 
Dadvisard  came  into  my  miserable  little  shack 
on  the  field.  He  said  to  me  :  '  Mon  general, 
just  show  me  on  the  map  where  the  Germans 
are.'  A  map  was  hanging  on  the  wall  and  I 
indicated  with  my  finger :  '  Les  Allemands  sont 
la,  mon  enfant/  And  Dadvisard  said  :  '  Why, 
is  that  all  there  is  to  do — just  to  go  out  and  attack 
232 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

them  there  ?  Why,  we'll  be  coming  back  as 
gaily  as  if  it  were  from  the  races  !  '  He  turned 
to  go,  saying  :  '  Au  revoir,  mon  general.'  But 
at  the  door  he  paused,  and  I  looked  up  and  saw 
him  and  he  said  :  '  Adieu,  mon  general.'  And 
then  I  saw  in  his  eyes  a  singular  look,  something 
like  an  appeal  from  one  human  soul  to  another, 
for  a  word,  a  touch,  before  going  out  to  that 
sacrifice.  I  did  not  dare  to  say  anything  but 
what  I  did  say  :  '  Bon  courage,  mon  enfant ; 
bonne  chance  ! '  And  he  went.  ..." 

After  telling  me  this,  Mme.  de  S.  took  out 
his  watch,  which  she  carries  with  her  now — a 
gold  watch,  with  his  crest  upon  it — the  one  he 
had  carried  through  all  his  campaigns,  with  the 
soldier's  rough  chain  hanging  from  it.  It  had 
stopped  at  half-past  ten  ;  as  he  had  wound  it 
the  night  before,  the  watch  had  gone  on  after 
his  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  .  .  . 

The  day  before  Henry  left  his  own  company 
of  Cuirassiers  to  go  into  the  dangerous  and  terrible 
experiences  of  the  trenches,  to  take  up  that  duty 
which  ended  in  his  laying  down  his  life,  he  gathered 
his  men  together  and  bade  them  good-bye.  Last 
night  dear  Mme.  de  S.  showed  me  his  soldier's 
note-book,  in  which  he  had  written  the  few  words 
that  he  meant  to  say  to  his  men.  I  begged  her 
to  let  me  have  them  :  I  give  them  to  you.  This 
233 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

address  stands  to  me  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  I  have  ever  read. 

General  Foch  paid  him  a  fine  tribute  when  he 
mentioned  him  in  despatches,  and  this  mention 
of  him  was  accompanied  by  the  bestowal  of  the 
Croix  de  Guerre. 

"  Henry  Dad  visard,  warm  hearted  and  vibrant ; 
a  remarkable  leader  of  men.  He  asked  to  be 
transferred  to  the  infantry,  in  order  to  offer 
more  fully  to  his  country  his  admirable  military 
talents.  He  fell  gloriously  on  the  27th  April, 
leading  an  attack  at  the  head  of  his  company." 


To  Mme.  Hugues  le  Roux,  N.Y. 

PARIS,  June  soth,  1915. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

I  am  sure  that  to-morrow  I  shall  have  a 
real  letter  from  you.  You  must  be  enjoying  that 
wonderful  country  to  the  full,  and  glad  that  you 
are  there  at  last,  aren't  you  ? 

It  is  hard  for  me  to  remember  what  I  have 
told  in  the  different  letters,  and  I  run  the  risk  of 
repeating. 

I  went  the  other  night  to  see  "La  Princesse 
Georges,"  at  the  Fran9ais.     It  is  hard  to  realise 
that  such  acting  and  pieces  are  still  going  on. 
234 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

The  house  was  crowded,  I  am  glad  to  say,  for  the 
poor  Socie'taires'  sake. 

You  said  once,  during  the  spring,  before  you 
came  over,  that  whether  or  not  I  was  lonely,  I 
should  enjoy  the  beauty  of  Paris.  I  have  never 
seen  anything  more  marvellous  than  it  has  been — 
almost  deserted,  really.  Sometimes  I  walk  in 
streets  where  there  is  literally  no  one ;  and,  of 
course,  at  night,  as  I  often  return  at  half-past 
ten  or  eleven,  it  is  like  walking  through  a  deserted 
village — and  such  darkness  !  Coming  out  of  the 
theatre,  I  walked  home  from  the  Fran9ais,  and  I 
never  saw  anything  so  wonderful  as  that  night. 
The  moon  was  full ;  the  only  lights  lit  were  here 
and  there  one,  then  another  ;  and  Paris  was  as  it 
must  have  been  centuries  ago,  left  in  all  its  beauty 
to  the  night  alone.  I  leaned  on  the  bridge  and 
saw  the  shadows  of  the  bridges  and  the  reflections 
of  the  houses  immovable  in  the  calm  water  of  the 
Seine,  and  overhead  such  a  divine  sky. 

I  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Walter  Gay,  and  found 
her  in  her  lovely  room  on  the  garden.  She  was 
very  cordial.  Last  summer  the  Germans  were 
within  fifteen  miles  of  her  chateau.  They  buried 
everything  of  value  hi  the  garden,  and  with  a  few 
inhabitants  of  the  village,  who  dared  to  remain, 
Mrs.  Gay  and  her  husband  stood  by  their  posses- 
sions, because,  as  she  said  :  "  I  would  not  leave 
235 


the  few  villagers  who  had  remained."  Of  course, 
as  you  know,  the  miracle  of  the  Marne  took  place, 
and  the  detour  was  made. 

I  found  the  Matin  letter  to-day  (Monday), 
with  its  news  from  Harvard,  thrilling  and  beauti- 
fully put.  Julie  writes :  "  How  closely  the 
Matin  keeps  us  in  touch  with  America  !  " 
I  need  scarcely  say  that  it's  the  first  thing  I  read — 
that  letter  from  you  and  home. 

If  the  girls  and  Violet  have  shared  with  you 
what  I  have  written  them,  you  are  au  courant 
with  all  the  tragedy  of  Henry  Dad  visard. 

Isn't  it  charming  that  they  call  the  soldiers' 
new  uniform  "  bleu  d'horizon  "  ? 

I  am  very  glad  that  when  Robert  went  to 
England  he  made  some  of  the  real  spirit  of  England 
felt  when  he  came  back  and  wrote  for  the  Matin. 
I  don't  think  it  has  been  properly  noted,  the 
amount  of  ammunition  that  England  has  sent 
to  Serbia,  Italy,  everywhere ;  and  if  England 
has  continued  her  commerce,  it's  fortunate  that 
she  has,  isn't  it  ?  considering  that  she  has  supplied 
boots  and  clothing  to  France,  and  boots  and 
clothing  to  Serbia,  and  that  the  output  of  the 
English  factories  to  the  countries  at  war  has  been 
perfectly  tremendous.  It  is  absolutely  sickening 
to  me  to  think  that  France  and  England,  fighting 
together  for  the  civilization  of  the  world,  should 
236 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

not  mutually  appreciate  and  value  each  other 
as  they  ought.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  all  this  petty 
jealousy — you  know  what  I  think  about  jealousy, 
anyway — the  jealousies  of  us  all — that  has 
created  what  is  going  on. 

To-day  I  went — supposedly — to  see  Gausset 
operate  at  the  Val  de  Grace,  at  the  back  of  the 
Pantheon — the  big  military  hospital.  Gausset 
was  at  the  front,  and  the  infirmiere  who  showed 
me  about  was  a  friend  of  Miss  Chaptal's,  and  knew 
me  and  you — Mme.  Fernande,  awfully  sweet 
and  pretty. 

I  have  been  in  the  throes  of  trying  to  decide 
whether  or  not  to  take  the  apartment  downstairs 
and  throw  it  into  this,  or  to  take  the  empty  one 
on  the  fourth  floor  at  No.  6,  a  nice  house,  clean 
concierges,  lift,  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  You 
need  not  come  in  on  this.  I  am  wearing  myself 
to  the  bone  with  the  pros  and  cons,  and  pours  and 
centres ;  and  I  shall  probably  end  by  doing  as  I 
have  for  ten  years — grub  along  here.  But  it's 
pretty  nice  grubbing.  I  never  saw  anything  as 
sweet  as  the  little  place  is  to-day ;  it  grows 
mellower  and  mellower,  and  dirtier  and  dirtier  ! 
The  painter  has  suggested  asking  frs.5oo  for 
painting  the  escalier  de  service.  This  is  what  I 
should  call  "  war  paint  "  ! 


237 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Mrs.  Morawetz,  New  York. 

PARIS,  June  22nd,  1915. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

I  went  out  the  other  day  with  Madame 
Marie  to  Versailles,  en  auto.  I  wanted  to  see  the 
little  hospital  that  Anne  Morgan  and  Bessie 
Marbury  have  given  out  there.  One  of  their 
pretty  little  houses  is  in  the  charge  of  some 
gentle-faced  sisters  of  charity,  and  out  in  the 
garden,  with  the  roses  blooming  and  the  sweet- 
scented  hay  being  raked  hi  great  piles,  were 
sitting  a  lieutenant,  convalescing,  and  his  com- 
mandant, who  had  come  to  see  him,  also  wounded. 
Both  men  wore  the  Legion  of  Honour  on  their 
breasts.  They  were  talking  about  the  campaign. 
The  lieutenant  wore  his  kepi  well  down  over  his 
face ;  he  was  totally  blind  for  ever,  at  thirty  ! 
His  interest  in  talking  to  his  superior  officer  was 
so  great  that  you  can  fancy  I  only  stopped  a 
second  to  speak  to  him.  There  were  great  scars 
on  his  hands  and  his  face  and  neck  were  scarred 
too.  I  heard  him  say,  as  I  turned  to  walk  away  : 
"  J'aime  aussi  causer  des  jours  quand  nous 
etions  collegiens  a  Saint-Cyr.  Ces  souvenirs  sont 
plus  doux."  It  was  terribly  touching. 

I  had  an  interesting  letter  from  Madelon.     She 
says  :    "  We  are  on  the  Ypres  Road,  five  miles 
238 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

from  Ypres.  The  country  is  marvellous,  and  it 
seems  awful  that  it  is  all  being  destroyed  by  those 
fiendish  shells.  Every  once  in  so  often  they  make 
hash  of  the  scenery,  and  the  guns  are  always 
banging,  and  the  sky  is  all  lit  up  with  the  mag- 
nesium flares.  I  have  got  no  one  to  keep  me 
company.  Things  were  awfully  slack  for  a  while, 
and  we  thought  there  would  not  be  any  more 
fighting  this  way  ;  but  it's  on  again  now,  and  we 
are  busy  day  and  night.  We  sleep  on  the  hay- 
stacks with  the  rats  and  the  bats.  A  cow  carried 
off  my  sheets,  but  somebody — God  knows  who — 
sent  me  a  tent,  and  I  sleep  down  by  a  branch  of  the 
Yser,  cows  grazing  at  my  feet,  and  shells  screaming 
over  my  head.  .  .  ." 


To  Miss  Anna  Lusk,  N.Y. 

4,  PLACE  cu  PALAIS  BOURBON, 
PARIS,  June  aznd,  1915. 

DEAREST  ANNA, 

I  have  not  answered  your  sweet  letter 
or  thanked  you  for  your  welcoming  cable,  but  I 
do  so  now  for  both  very  sincerely. 

I  have  only  been  once  or  twice  to  the  Ambu- 
lance since  I  came  back — this  time  as  a  visitor ; 
and  I  am  more  and  more  impressed  with  the 
organisation.     You  cannot  think  what  good  has 
239 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

been  done  there,  or  how  the  devotion  of  the 
women  who  have  stayed  there  since  the  beginning 
has  impressed  me,  who  only  remained  eight 
weeks.  Mrs.  Munroe  has  varicose  veins  in  her 
legs  from  standing  so  much,  and  finally  had  to  go 
down  to  Limoges  for  treatment,  but  she  is  back. 
The  work  done  there  in  the  operating-rooms  is 
marvellous.  An  English  nurse  was  telling  me 
last  night  that  she  had  never  in  all  her  life  dreamed 
of  such  miracles  of  surgery.  Harvey  Gushing  is 
among  the  operators,  as  you  know,  from  Harvard, 
and  she  told  me  one  special  incident  of  interest. 
A  general  had  been  there  who,  when  viewing  the 
field  through  his  field-glasses,  was  struck  by  a 
bullet  which  drove  the  glass  of  his  lorgnon  right 
through  his  eye,  back  into  his  brain.  Imagine 
the  disfigurement  of  that  man,  and  think  of  his 
having  lived  !  Gushing  opened  the  back  of  his 
head  and  took  out  tin  and  glass,  and  goodness 
knows  what  not,  and  except  that  he  is  blind  in 
one  eye,  that  general  is  as  good  as  ever,  and  loud 
in  his  praises  of  the  surgery. 

Madame  de  S.  told  me  yesterday  of  a 
young  boy  whom  she  knows,  who  enlisted,  at 
fourteen,  in  his  own  father's  regiment.  He  has 
been  twice  taken  prisoner,  and  the  last  time  was 
sentenced  by  the  Germans  to  be  shot  as  a  spy — 
at  fourteen  !  The  little  fellow  tried  to  escape, 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

but  was  caught ;  but  the  German  soldier  who 
was  sent  out  to  execute  him  told  the  boy  that 
if  he  had  twenty  francs  on  him  he  would  let  him 
go.  The  little  boy  did  happen  to  have  frs.2o, 
which  he  gave  to  his  executioner,  and  he  is  now 
here  in  Paris,  under  his  mother's  wing.  Mme.  de 
S.  knows  him  well,  and  has  talked  with  him. 
Isn't  it  amusing  ? 

One  of  the  trained  nurses  here — notably  one 
who  had  been  at  Mrs.  Thayer's  house  in  Boston, 
when  I  spoke  for  the  Ambulance,  and  who 
offered  her  services  that  week  for  the  soldiers,  told 
me  that  she  had  one  man  in  her  ward  to  save 
whose  arm  the  doctors  and  nurses  of  that  special 
part  of  the  hospital  had  struggled  since  October. 
His  sufferings  have  been  terrible,  poor  thing, 
and  the  other  day  they  had  to  amputate  it  after 
all.  It  was  done  by  the  surgeon  of  the  Harvard 
Unit,  and  Miss  Giles  helped  him.  She  said  that 
he  and  she  and  the  other  nurses  too  cried,  and 
weren't  ashamed  of  it,  when  they  took  off  that 
arm  at  last.  Nobody  was  willing  to  tell  his  wife, 
who  came  often  to  see  her  husband.  Finally, 
Miss  Giles  volunteered,  and  she  went  to  tell  the 
poor  little  woman  that  her  husband  had  only  one 
arm.  Instead  of  greeting  her,  as  she  expected 
that  she  would,  with  tears,  the  little  woman, 
with  a  radiant  smile,  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  he's 
241  Q 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

all  mine  now !    The  war  will  never  have  him 
again  !  " 


To  Miss  B.  5.  Andrews,  New  York. 

PARIS,  July  I2th,  1915. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

Mme.  de  S.  is  going  next  week  on  the 
cruel  and  dreadful  mission  of  disinterring  her 
beloved  dead.  She  is  going  down  into  the  tomb 
in  Belgium — if  she  can  get  through — to  take  her 
boy  out  of  the  charnel  house,  where  he  is  buried 
under  six  other  coffins.  "  God  has  his  soul,"  she 
says  ;  "I  only  ask  his  body  "...  if  she  can 
find  it.  She  has  told  no  one  of  her  griefs,  but 
to  me  ;  and  she  bears  herself  like  a  woman  of 
twenty-five,  gallantly — interested  more  keenly 
hi  everything  that  concerns  me  to  the  smallest 
degree  than,  I  may  say,  any  friend  I  have  ever 
known  ;  for  even  in  this  tune  of  anguish,  she  has 
taken  infinite  pains  for  me,  in  every  little  detail. 
I  shall  never  forget  it. 

The  weather  is  too  glorious  for  words — a 
succession  of  charming,  balmy,  sun-filled  and 
breeze-lifted  days ;  with  the  most  wonderful 
skies.  You  have  seen  them  in  Watteau,  and  in  the 
landscapes  of  the  eighteenth  century  ;  and  we  see 
242 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

them  every  day  !  As  I  look  out  of  my  window, 
there  is  nothing  but  beauty  to  see — the  exquisite 
lines  of  the  Palais  Bourbon,  and  of  the  old  houses, 
with  the  glimpses  of  waving  trees  above  them  ; 
and  one  after  another  over  us  pass  these  divine 
midsummer  nights,  when  across  the  stars  passes 
the  star  of  an  aeroplane  and  the  night's  mystery 
is  enhanced.  I  never  wake  but  I  get  up  and  go  to 
my  window,  and  I  open  it  at  different  hours — at 
dawn  sometimes,  at  midnight  others — in  the 
flushing  or  the  paling  sky,  or  hi  the  mystery  of 
midnight. 

So  many  voices  have  spoken  to  me  this  time, 
and  strangely  enough,  my  tempestuous  heart 
has  listened  to  them  all.  It  seems  that  this 
dreadful  ban  of  lonely  complaint  has  been  lifted 
from  me.  I  suppose  we  can  learn  to  endure 
everything,  or  else  we  are  brought  to  see  it 
differently  ;  but  I  have  found  friends  in  the  very 
solitude  itself.  If  I  do  not  say  I  have  grown  to 
love  it,  it  is  only  because  I  don't  want  to  love  a 
lonely,  selfish  existence.  There  is  very  great 
beauty  now  in  my  life.  I  have  never  said  this 
before,  but  just  now  I  feel  it.  There  are  activities 
all  around  this  unshared  oasis.  I  have  what  you 
once  called  my  "  sacred  work,"  and  it  is  very 
precious.  Poor  as  it  is  and  unimportant  as  it  is, 
it  brings  into  play  activities  that  love  to  be 
243 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

exercised,  and  I  have  enjoyed  it  hugely.  There  is 
a  fascination  in  the  fact  that  nobody  can  say  to 
me  :  "  Do  this  or  do  that.  Come  here  or  Go 
there."  That  I  can  shut  my  doors  and  be  alone. 
If  I  wanted  to  open  them,  there  is  no  one  to 
come  ;  and  that  is  not  fascinating  at  all  ! 

Mrs.  Munroe  asked  me  to  take  a  little  interest 
in  the  electrical  treatment  at  the  hospital.  As 
it  is  given  in  a  room  all  by  itself,  downstairs,  far 
from  the  madding  phantasmagoria  of  wounds 
and  operations,  and  pretty  nurses  and  fascinating 
auxiliaries — not  to  speak  of  the  orderlies  and  the 
doctors — the  poor  little  job  has  fallen  to  the 
ground.  Nobody  wants  to  go  in  and  sit  down 
all  alone  and  give  electrical  treatment ;  so  one 
by  one  the  infirmieres  have  given  out.  I  went 
there  at  eight  o'clock  the  day  before  yesterday. 
I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  anything  more  touching 
than  the  useless  members  that  were  brought  to 
me  for  the  stimulating  effect — if  it  could  stimulate 
— of  that  little  electric  tampon.  Those  arms,  once 
so  vigorous  and  so  useful.  .  .  . 

" Qu'e'tiez-vous  de  votre  metier,  mon  ami?  " 
"  J'etais  dans  les  batiments,  madame." 
A       house-builder — building,       constructing, 
making  for  civilisation  and  happy  homes  !     From 
shoulder  to  elbow  ran  two  great  red  healed  scars. 
They  looked  like  the  railroad  tracks,  deep  laid, 
244 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

marking  where  the  train  of  a  shell  had  passed. 
From  the  elbow  down  to  the  vigorous  hand, 
everything  was  paralysed.  The  man  was  a 
splendid  fellow.  He  has  a  wife  and  two  children, 
and  he  worries  himself  sick  because  the  woman 
is  ill  and  the  children  are  delicate.  No  longer 
"  dans  les  bailments,"  he  has  been  eight  months 
at  the  Ambulance,  wearing  out  his  soul.  Looking 
down  at  his  hand,  he  said  to  me  :  "  Pourvu  que 
£a  marche,  madame,  un  de  ces  jours  !  " 

There  is  one  gay  officer  of  twenty-nine,  and 
six  feet  two.  I  don't  think  you'd  speak  of  "  little 
insignificant  Frenchmen  "  if  you  could  see  him  | 
He's  superb.  One  finger  off  on  the  left  hand,  and 
the  right  hand  utterly  useless.  So  we  work  at 
that  for  fifteen  minutes,  and  all  the  little  group 
of  soldiers  linger,  because  they  love  him  so — 
he's  so  killing,  so  witty,  so  gay.  He  screams  in 
mock  agony,  and  laughs  and  makes  the  most 
outrageous  jokes  ;  and  when  he  has  gone,  one 
of  them  says  to  me  :  "  II  est  adore  par  ses  hommes, 
madame ;  il  est  si  courageux."  The  spirit 
between  men  and  officers  is  so  beautiful  in  the 
French  army.  They  are  all  brothers.  None  of 
that  lordly,  arrogant  oppression  of  the  Germans. 
One  of  the  soldiers  said  to  me  :  "  II  n'y  a  pas  de 
grade,  maintenant,  madame.  Nous  sommes  tons 
des  hommes  qui  aiment  le  pays." 

245 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  =AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

And  Lieutenant  ,  of  whom  I  have  just 

been  speaking.  I  said  to  him  ;  "  Tell  me  some- 
thing about  the  campaign,  monsieur."  And  he 
answered  :  "  Oh,  madame,  I  would  like  to  tell  you 
about  the  men.  They're  superb.-  I  have  never 
seen  anything  like  it.  I  had  to  lead  a  charge 
with  156  men  into  what  we  all  believed  was 
certain  death.  Why,"  he  said,  "  they  went  like 
schoolboys — shouting,  laughing,  pushing  each 
other  up  the  parapet.  .  .  .  We  came  back  nine 
strong,"  he  said. 

I  immensely  enjoyed  seeing  Mrs.  Bacon  and 
seeing  Mr.  Bacon's  enthusiasm.  It's  wonderful 
to  have  such  Americans  living.  I  wish  that  a 
whole  band  of  American  women  could  forget 
everything  in  the  world  but  the  French  and  their 
need,  and  that  they  would  come  over  here  and 
work  in  the  fields  and  help  bring  in  the  harvest,  if 
nothing  else. 

The  head  of  the  ambulance  cars  at  the  hospital 
yesterday  told  me  that  there  would  soon  be  a  great 
need  for  ambulance  drivers  and  men,  as  the  heat 
of  the  summer  grows  greater,  and  the  tired  ones 
go  home. 

Dr.  Blake  has  been  magnificent.     His  opera 
tions  are  something  beyond  words.     Men  came 
in  to  me  for  treatment  and  told  me  that  he  worked 
246 


DR.  JOSEPH    HI.AKE 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

actual  miracles  with  faces  that  were  blown  oft, 
building  new  jaws,  and  oh,  Heavens !  I  don't  know 
what  not. 

Ellen  La  Motte  went  to  the  front  at  Dunkerque 
and  the  town  where  they  were  staying  was  bom- 
barded. The  shells  fell  all  about  them,  and  they 
were  shut  up  and  not  allowed  to  go  out  for 
fourteen  hours.  They  sat  playing  cards  and  eating 
chocolates,  not  knowing  whether  at  any  moment, 
right  in  their  midst,  an  explosion  would  not  end 
their  life.  She  said  she  was  frightened  to  death, 
and  it  was  perfectly  horrible.  If  they'd  been 
working  on  the  field,  I  suppose  it  would  have  been 
different. 

I  was  sitting  here  the  other  day  when  my 
dear  friend  Victor  Ballet,  now  docteur-major, 
came  in.  He  has  just  dined  with  me  and  spent 
the  evening,  and  I  have  enjoyed  him  enormously. 
He  says — and  I  really  suppose  that  you  might  at 
least  take  his  word  for  it — that  the  French  dead 
number  400,000,  and  that  the  Germans  have 
hors  de  combat,  since  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
4  million  men. 

A  friend  of  Miss  La  Motte's — an  American 
woman  here — has  just  received  word  from  Berlin 
through  Switzerland,  from  a  woman  in  a  high 
official  position  in  Berlin,  that  if  she  values  her  life 
she  should  leave  Paris  immediately.  It's  awfully 
247 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

consoling,  isn't  it  ?  This  letter  must  have  taken 
at  least  ten  days  to  reach  her,  and  at  the  time 
it  was  written  things  were  not  looking  as  well  as 
they  do  now. 

No  more  at  present. 

Ever  yours, 
M. 

To  Mrs.  Morawetz. 

PARIS,  July  I4th,  1915. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

The  world  is  so  callous  and  so  indifferent, 
and  over  here  we  feel  very  bitterly  at  times  the 
indifference  of  America  to  the  causes  at  stake. 
I  can  see  it  at  the  Ambulance,  as  expressed  by 
those  who  have  just  come  from  America.  As 
long  as  their  pockets  are  bulging  and  they're 
making  money,  Americans  can  be  slaughtered  on 
the  seas,  and  France  can  fight  for  her  beauty 
and  her  soul,  and  it's  all  the  same  to  the  majority 
at  home.  Thank  God  there  are  Americans  still 
that  don't  feel  that  way ;  but,  as  always,  the 
elite  are  few. 

It  is  sweet  of  you  to  say  you  miss  me.  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  do  think  of  me  sometimes, 
only  the  past  is  so  vague  and  dim  compared  with 
your  busy,  absorbed  present,  with  your  house  and 
its  interests,  and  your  travelling  and  the  new 
248 


WAR   LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

people,  that  it's  like  looking  into  a  camera  obscura 
and  seeing  a  picture  whose  tones  are  soft — not 
vivid  enough  to  create  very  much  impression. 

This  is  the  fourteenth  of  July.  You  remember 
how  many,  many  times  we've  seen  it  come  and  go 
here  together.  This  morning  I  was  in  the  street 
before  eight,  going  up  to  the  Ambulance.  I 
stopped  to  see  mother,  and  greet  her.  Then  I 
left  a  note  at  Cousin  Lottie's,  and  then  went  on 
to  the  hospital.  I  must  tell  you  about  my  electric 
work  there. 

The  first  day  I  took  it  on,  the  machine  didn't 
go,  and  no  one  in  the  place  seemed  to  understand 
anything  about  it.  After  having  walked  three 
or  four  miles,  and  escaped  detection,  I  looked 
on  the  plaque  of  the  machine  and  found  out 
where  it  was  made — Paris,  fortunately,  or  I 
should  have  been  tramping  still !  I  wrapped  it 
up  in  brown  paper,  took  it  in  my  arms,  coralled 
one  of  the  hospital  ambulance  motors,  and  went 
to  the  factor}?,  at  the  back  of  the  Observatory. 
The  thing  was  put  in  order  in  no  time.  Moreover, 
they  explained  it  to  me,  and  taught  me  its  in- 
tricacies, and  then  I  fetched  it  home.  All  the 
following  day  I  encountered  people  who  kept 
saying  to  me  :  "  It's  too  bad  there  isn't  any 
electric  treatment,  isn't  it  ?  The  machine  doesn't 
work."  I  smiled,  for  I  hid  it  under  a  mattress 
249 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

when  I  left,  so  that  nobody  should  make  it  not 
work  in  my  absence,  if  I  could  help  it ! 

I  didn't  expect  to  like  this  department,  but 
I  do  like  it  awfully.  I  am  all  alone  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hospital,  in  a  room  screened  off  by  itself. 
Back  of  me  they  are  making  plaster  casts  for 
pitiful  limbs.  A  little  further  on,  a  locksmith 
hammers  and  bangs  all  day  long ;  but  somehow, 
I  don't  hear  him.  And  there  ten  to  sixteen  men 
come  to  me  every  day,  and  I  work  from  a  little 
after  eight  till  twelve.  Then  I  go  to  one  or  two 
in  the  wards.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  all  work  is  fascinating,  for  one  after  another, 
as  I  take  up  different  activities,  each  has  its 
charm. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  after  Mrs.  Vanderbilt  left, 
Mrs.  George  Mnnroe  took  her  place,  and  is  really 
directress  of  the  American  Ambulance  now  ? 
She  has  been  perfectly  wonderful.  I  don't  think 
there  are  any  words  too  strong  to  speak  in  praise 
of  her.  I  surely  feel  it  so,  and  I  know  that  France 
will  echo  this.  Since  the  day  the  hospital  opened, 
in  August,  until  to-day,  she  has  had  no  holiday. 
From  early  morning  until  night,  and  sometimes 
all  night  long,  Mrs.  Munroe  has  been  on  duty — 
nursing,  directing,  overseeing.  Her  health  has 
been  very  much  impaired  and  broken,  and  who  can 
wonder  ?  She  came  into  the  hospital  looking  like 
250 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

a  rose,  and  now  she  looks  like  a  lily.  It  is  a 
beautiful  thing  to  feel  that  she  has  given  so 
completely  all  her  forces  and  vitality  to  serve 
her  adopted  country. 

On  Sunday  I  went  out  to  Mrs.  Whitney's 
hospital  at  Juilly.  There  she  is  taking  care  of 
256  wounded  men.  Mother's  one-time  com- 
panion, Miss  Hansen,  has  a  ward  with  25  men, 
and  she  has  no  auxiliary  ! 

The  hospital  was  once  an  old  college,  part  of 
it  dating  from  the  twelfth  century  ;  and  the  piping, 
in  some  instances,  had  to  be  carried  through  walls 
twelve  feet  thick  !  There  is  a  beautiful  garden, 
with  swans  sailing  about  on  the  ponds  ;  and  it's  a 
great  sight  altogether  to  see  what  the  enterprise 
and  generosity  of  one  woman  has  done  As  far 
as  I  can  judge,  the  organisation  is  admirable. 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Brewer  are  at  the  head,  with  a  fine 
Columbia  contingent.  Personally,  I  should  think 
that  every  woman  to  whom  France  has  given 
so  much  all  these  years  would  do  something  now 
to  prove  their  unselfish  devotion.  We  were 
much  touched  by  Mrs.  Bacon's  coming,  and  it 
gave  a  great  deal  of  courage  to  every  one.  She 
is  a  brick,  and  I  like  her  awfully. 

After  lunch,  Miss  Methley  and  I  went  to  the 
battlefield  of  the  Marne.     You  call  it  a  battlefield, 
but  now,  in  the  generous  course  of  time,  on  all 
251 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

sides  has  grown  up  the  season's  grain.  There 
are  the  rye  and  barley  and  wheat  harvests,  green 
and  yellow,  abundant  and  beautiful,  their  tide 
stemmed  only  here  and  there  by  white  crosses 
and  black  crosses,  as  the  soldiers'  graves  shine 
out  amid  the  grain.  Oh,  the  spiritual  lesson  here 
is  so  great ! 

"  If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again  ?  " 

Yes,  in  glory,  in  the  making  of  the  newer  fields — 
his  blood  and  his  valour  the  seeds  for  a  more 
spiritual  harvest  to  his  country  and  for  his  kin. 
The  seed  cannot  be  quickened  until  it  has  lain 
underground.  So  it  seems,  as  one  thinks  of  it, 
as  though  England  and  France  had  been  obliged 
to  sow  these  Fields  of  Time  with  living  seed. 

Here  and  there  were  ruined  churches  and  a 
few  broken-in  houses  ;  and  further  along  the  new 
entrenchments  for  great  guns,  in  case  of  Paris 
being  threatened  again.  But  there  was  not  much 
more  to  see  than  this.  Still,  over  all  the  land  and 
over  everything  we  did,  there  was  the  spirit  of 
excitement  and  of  war.  At  the  little  station, 
even,  as  we  took  the  train  later,  one  man  was 
bidding  his  mother  and  wife  and  little  family 
good-bye  as  he  went  to  the  front.  The  women's 
faces  were  heart-rending,  but  the  man  was  brave 
and  gay,  his  face  set  toward  Id-bas. 
252 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

The  first-class  carriage  into  which  we  tumbled 
was  full  of  officers — seven  of  them — going  home, 
my  dear,  for  the  first  time  since  the  war  began, 
eleven  months  ago.  I  wish  you  could  have  been 
there  and  sat  by  my  side  during  that  hour's 
journey.  To  my  left  was  a  captain  in  the 
Chasseurs  d'Afrique — a  man  of  about  fifty,  and 
without  doubt  he  would  find  in  Paris  no  one  to 
make  him  welcome.  But  the  others — in  the 
cavalry,  in  the  artillery,  in  the  infantry — all  in 
different  uniforms — high  boots  and  trench  boots — 
every  one  shaved  clean  and  neat,  and  yet  bearing 
upon  them  the  marks  of  the  campaign — weather- 
beaten,  rugged,  eager ;  and  yet  still,  in  the  eyes 
of  some  of  them,  dazed  bewilderment,  as  though 
they  had  been  brought  back  too  suddenly  into  the 
quiet  and  into  security.  It  was  to  me  a  very 
impressive  journey,  and  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  the 
tide  of  blue  seemed  to  surge  out  through  the 
station  into  the  Sunday  streets.  It  flooded  the 
cafes  and  Metros  and  taxis — everywhere,  the 
men  coming  home  for  four  days,  for  eight  days  at 
most,  snatched  from  the  living  death,  given  back 
to  caresses  and  tenderness,  to  tears  and  to  thanks- 
giving— to  be  torn  away  again  so  soon  ...  so 
soon. 

Of  course  I  have  become  very  much  interested 
in  the  group  of  men  to  whom  I  give  electricity. 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

The  patience  and  dignity  of  these  soldiers  is  a 
constant  lesson  ;  and  they  are  so  polite  and  so 
grateful — such  splendid  fellows — and  it  is  so 
dreadful  to  see  their  mutilations. 

I  am  quite  conscious  that  all  I  write  now  seems 
a  repetition  of  an  old  story,  probably  tiresome  to 
you.  I  can  only,  my  dear,  envy  myself  deeply. 
I  cannot  envy  all  of  you  over  there — not  at  all. 
I  would  not  have  missed,  for  any  luxurious 
immunity  in  the  world,  or  for  any  family  life, 
or  for  anything,  the  wine  I  have  been  permitted 
to  drink  at  the  table  of  France  and  of  England, 
too.  The  very  trifling  bit  that  I  have  been  able 
to  do,  I  cannot  help  but  feel,  has  linked  me 
indissolubly  with  these  suffering  countries,  whose 
ideals  and  whose  standards  are  the  ones  for  which 
my  own  country  has  already  fought  and  for  which 
it  stands.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  should  have  joined 
the  Foreign  Legion  long  ago. 

We  hear  with  interest  of  the  good  service 
done  by  the  American  aviators  ;  and  nothing 
that  has  been  said  in  America  has  seemed  to  me 
more  beautiful  than  the  Harvard  young  man's 
address  at  his  graduating  class,  as  Hugues  le 
Roux  quotes  it  in  the  "  Matin." 

Dr.  Brewer,  at  Mrs.  Whitney's  ambulance, 
said  that  all  the  surrounding  country  was  depen- 
dent upon  the  ambulance  for  medical  aid,  as  all 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  French  doctors  were  at  the  front.  So  one 
of  the  young  surgeons  has  undertaken  the  "  sante" 
du  pays,"  and  gallantly  sets  forth,  when  he  has 
time  from  the  "  blesses,"  in  a  little  grey  motor, 
to  do  the  country  rounds,  and  to  bring  babies  into 
the  world,  and  the  like  and  the  like.  As  he  is  not  a 
gynaecologist,  he  has  been  up  against  it  sometimes, 
and  finally  stood  blankly  before  a  very  ailing  week- 
old  baby,  seemingly  not  at  all  tenacious  of  life. 
The  little  Frenchman  didn't  want  to  "grow  up  to 
be  a  soldier,"  born  though  he  was  hi  the  war  zone, 
within  sound  of  the  guns.  So  the  young  surgeon, 
whose  French  vocabulary  was  very  limited,  and 
whose  knowledge  of  baby  feeding  was  more  so, 
said  to  the  mother  that  he  thought  what  the  kid 
wanted  was  "  solid  food  "  !  This,  of  course,  being 
perfectly  unintelligible  to  the  peasant  woman, 
did  not  pull  matters  along  very  far,  and  the 
young  man  bethought  himself  of  the  only 
French  vegetable  he  knew  by  name — choufleur 
— and  he  conveyed  to  the  mother  the  idea  that 
she  must  give  the  baby  cauliflower !  What  she 
did  about  it,  I  don't  know,  but  the  sick  baby 
got  well,  and  will  be  all  ready  for  the  Germans 
in  1935  ! 

Dr.  Brewer  also  at  luncheon  told  us  of  an 
American  crossing  on  one  of  the  Channel  boats, 
He  said  to  the  steward :  "  Where  are  your 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

lifebelts,  steward  ?  I  don't  see  them  anywhere." 
And  the  steward,  looking  at  him  sarcastically, 
said  :  "  Are  you  one  of  them  damned  fools  that 
thinks  every  boat's  going  to  sink  ?  "  And  the 
gentleman  replied :  "  Are  you  one  of  those 
damned  fools  that  think  no  boat's  going  to  sink  ? 
I  was  on  the  Lusitania." 

Dr.  Brewer  told  us  that  the  British  War  Office 
had  cabled  to  the  Columbia  people  that  the  need 
of  surgeons  and  nurses  was  very  great.  So  many 
English  surgeons  have  laid  down  their  lives 
already,  and,  of  course,  the  active  need  for  them 
is  tremendous.  Dr.  Brewer  said  that  three 
contingents  of  thirty-six  surgeons  and  seventy-five 
nurses  had  already  been  sent  from  Columbia, 
and  that  altogether  there  are  about  two  hundred 
American  surgeons,  and  four  or  five  hundred 
nurses  over  here.  Also  that  nearly  all  the  first 
batch  of  nurses  and  doctors  who  went  to  Serbia 
had  died.  I  think  these  glorious  things  ought  to 
be  known,  and  that  the  people  should  have  the 
credit  due  for  them. 

Last  year,  when  I  wrote  to  you  from  here,  I 
was  still  so  personally  conscious  of  my  own  solitude 
and  of  what  I  wanted  and  could  not  have,  that  a 
great  deal  of  the  perspective  of  things  was  lost. 
Now,  somehow  or  other,  I  seem  to  have  become 
merged  in  the  whole  to  a  gratifying  extent.  I 
256 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

have  been  disintegrated  in  order  to  be  integrated — 
if  you  can  understand  me  ? 

Ai  ever, 

M. 


PARIS,  July  2oth,  1915. 

DEAREST  VIOLET, 

I  am  worrying  all  the  time  about  the 
expensiveness  of  the  furniture,  because  I  know 
that  you  will  contrast  it  with  the  Italian  rococo 
rotundo  risplendo  business,  and  you  will  find  that 
your  graceful  Louis  Seize  is  "  higher  and  fewer." 
Well,  I  can't  help  it.  If  you  cut  off  diplomatic 
relations,  perhaps  you'll  cut  off  antiquity  relations 
too.  Chi  lo  sa  ? 

I  saw  a  very  touching  thing  the  other  day  in 
the  Madeleine,  where  I  went  to  Mass.  A  woman 
no  longer  young,  in  the  heaviest  of  crape,  came  in 
and  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
She  shook  with  suppressed  sobs  and  terrible 
weeping.  Presently  there  came  in  another  wor- 
shipper, a  stranger  to  her,  and  sat  down  by  her 
side.  He  was  a  splendid-looking  officer  in  full- 
dress  uniform — a  young  man,  with  a  wedding- 
ring  upon  his  hand — one  of  those  permissionnaires 
home,  evidently,  for  the  short  eight  days  that  all 
the  officers  are  given  now — a  hiatus  between  the 
old  war  and  the  new.  He  bent  too,  praying  ;  but 
257  R 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  weeping  of  the  woman  at  his  side  evidently  tore 
his  heart*  Presently  she  lifted  her  face  and  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  the  officer  put  his  hand  on  hers. 
And  as  I  was  sitting  near,  I  heard  what  he  said  : 

"  Pauvre  madame,  pauvre  madame  !  .  .  . 
Ma  mere  pleure  comme  vous." 

She  glanced  at  him,  then  bent  again  in  prayer. 
But  when  she  had  finished,  before  she  left  her 
seat,  I  heard  her  say  to  him  : 

"  Monsieur,  j'ai  beaucoup  prie  pour  vous. 
Sachez  que  vous  avez  les  prieres  d'une  vieille 
mere  a  laquelle  ne  reste  rien  au  monde." 

He  touched  her  hand  again  and  said  : 

"  Merci,  madame.    Adieu  !  " 

It  was  just  one  of  those  intensely  touching 
pictures  in  that  dimly  lighted  church,  full  of 
worshippers,  that  one  can  never  forget. 

I  went  yesterday  to  see  the  aerodrome  at  Le 
Bourget,  where  the  Nieuports  lay  along  the  ground 
like  wasps,  waiting  to  fly  and  sting.  I  would  give 
anything  hi  the  world  to  be  a  soldier  taking  part 
in  the  trenches. 

Coal  is  now  a  dollar  a  sack,  and  in  the  shops, 
one  by  one,  everything  is  growing  rarer.  I  bought 
batiste  de  linon  one  day  at  three  francs  a  yard, 
and  the  following  day  it  was  ten,  and  only  a  few 
pieces  at  that !  Safety  pins  can't  be  had. 
258 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  received  a  cable  last  night  from  Bessie, 
saying  that  they  sail  on  the  I2th  August  by  the 
Patria,  and  asking  me  to  meet  her  in  Italy,  which 
I  can  make  no  plans  to  do,  as  mother's  health  is 
very  wavering. 

With  the  idea  of  going  into  the  next  apart- 
ment— into  that  new  and  untried  place  that,  like 
the  girl  said  about  sickly  Italian  love  music,  "  I 
hate  it,  and  I  love  it " — I  conceived  the  notion 
of  asking  my  old  landlord  to  let  me  take  with  me 
the  boutons  de  porte.  I  wanted  these  door 
handles,  that  have  been  turned  and  turned  for 
years  by  the  hands  of  those  I  love.  I  simply 
couldn't  bear  to  think  of  those  little  brass  knobs, 
that  I  have  kept  polished  by  the  greatest  effort 
in  memory  of  the  past,  should  fall  under  the 
vulgar  fingers  of  other  people,  who  would  not 
even  keep  them  clean.  Strange,  but  true,  the 
proprietor  has  consented. 

Of  course  the  kingdom  of  one's  mind  is  a  very 
great  possession,  but  even  in  it  one  can't  take  the 
full  amount  of  satisfaction  unless  one  feels  that 
all  its  capabilities  and  its  possibilities  are  developed 
to  the  full.  And  even  in  these  pathways  of  the 
intellect  and  of  the  spirit,  it  is  possible  and  easy 
to  go  astray.  It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  decide 
what  ways  are  best  or  most  complete. 

My  last  few  winters  in  America  have  developed 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  me  the  strongest  Americanism,  and  the  active 
life  of  New  York — I  don't  mean  the  rushing  up 
and  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  motor,  or  lunching 
at  the  Colony  Club,  but  the  consciousness  of  that 
network  represented  to  me  by  Sixth  Avenue  and 
the  publishers'  offices,  that  getting  into  direct 
touch  with  the  mechanism  that  has  made  my 
successes,  that  coming  into  contact  with  active 
business  life — is  fascinating  to  me,  and  indeed 
has  been  for  years  part,  as  you  know,  of  my 
existence.  And  then,  being  able,  in  a  few 
moments,  to  come  in  contact  with  the  people  who 
are  dearest  and  most  sympathetic  to  me  is,  very 
naturally,  a  great  thing  in  my  life. 

I  close — not  because  I  haven't  anything  more 
to  say  ! 

Best  love, 

M. 


To  Mrs.  Morawetz  and  Miss  Andrews,  New 
Yor*. 

4,  PLACE  DU  PALAIS  BOURBON,  PARIS. 

MY  DEAR  FRIENDS, 

I  don't  want  to  change  my  home  without 
letting  you  all  know  of  the  fact. 

Can  you  realise  that  you  will  none  of  you  ever 
260 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

see  again  little  old  4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon, 
with  its  memories,  sad  and  lovely,  its  charm,  the 
pretty  little  study,  and  the  rest  ? 

To  Violet  it  has  a  very  real  entity,  and  I  hope 
some  sweetness  still.  I  never  shall  forget  the  day 
when  she  dragged  me  by  the  hair  of  my  head  up 
against  a  three  years'  lease  at  which  I  baulked 
and  almost  died.  I  never  thought  that  we  would 
be  able  to  pay  that  rent.  I  expected  to  be  sold 
up  at  the  Drouot  for  back  rent  and  taxes  !  I 
expected  every  horror  that  a  woman  making  her 
living  under  difficult  circumstances  could  fear. 
But  Violet's  optimism,  Violet's  courage — and, 
above  all,  Violet's  wish  to  make  a  home  with  me, 
to  build  this  little  high-swinging  nest  with  some 
one  she  loved — to  have  a  home  of  her  own — were 
stronger  than  my  fears ;  and  together,  very 
slowly  and  unostentatiously,  we  made  what  has 
been  such  a  charming  entourage.  She  loved  it 
with  all  her  heart.  And  I  have  loved  it  even 
more.  I  have  learnt  priceless  and  wonderful 
lessons  here  ;  I've  had  great  and  deep  experiences. 
There  is  a  charm  about  it,  and  a  beauty  that 
nothing  else  can  ever  give  to  me  in  the  way  of  a 
home. 

Here  I  have  seen  France  rock  on  her  founda- 
tions.    Here  I  have  watched  with  her,  wept  with 
her,  and  believed  in  her  victory. 
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WAR   LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

For  many  reasons  I  am  not  sorry  to  go. 

You  all  remember  No.  6,  upstairs.  We  have 
all  seen  it  together.  Now  it  is  free.  On  Monday 
— always  a  lucky  day  for  me — I  sign  the  lease. 
I  shall  have  a  long,  irregular  parlour,  on  the  walls 
of  which  is  a  lovely  old  red  brocade,  antique,  with 
pretty  red  taffeta  curtains  ;  and  on  the  floor  a 
wonderful  Savonnerie  Aubusson  carpet.  That's 
the  foundation  of  my  new  drawing-room.  Of 
course  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  imagine  that  I 
have  not  presented  myself  with  this  beauty  ;  and 
easy,  too,  to  imagine  that,  like  everything  else 
that  I  possess,  it  has  been  a  gift  of  love. 

The  long  room  at  the  back  is  going  to  be  a 
bedroom  with  a  bath ;  and  there's  another 
bedroom  and  bath,  a  beautiful  ante-chambre, 
a  big  dining-room,  a  study  which  will  recall  the 
old,  a  lovely  bedroom  for  me  with  dressing- 
room  and  bath,  a  kitchen  big  enough  to  prepare 
the  fatted  calf  in,  four  servants'  rooms,  an 
elevator,  and  a  bully  pair  of  concierges,  who, 
I  hope,  will  stand  guardian  to  me  for  a  new  and 
successful  future. 

It  is  a  bold  step.  I  can  ask  my  married 
friends  to  visit  me;  I  can  give  any  one  who 
comes  a  room  and  bath  and  a  room  for  their 
maid  ;  so  there  won't  be  any  excuse  now  for 
turning  down  my  hospitality,  and  those  who  are 
262 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

fat  and  weak  in  the  legs  won't  have  to  walk 
upstairs. 

Out  of  the  windows  I  see  all  the  beauty  I  have 
loved  so  long ;  but  I  am  above  it — still  higher — 
and  the  view  is  wider,  wonderful.  Far  over  to  the 
left  rises  the  lily-like  spectre  of  the  Sacre"  Coeur. 
It  is  too,  too  beautiful  for  words. 

I  was  delighted  to  find  that  all  my  curtains  fit, 
and,  of  course,  I  have  more  than  enough  furniture 
to  begin  with.  The  place  will  be  repainted,  with 
the  chauffage  and  the  bathrooms  in,  by  October, 
and  I  hope  I  shall  rent  my  old  place  by  then. 

Quite  apart  from  anything  else,  I  couldn't 
stand  the  stairs  any  more.  I  used  to  stay  out 
because  I  simply  couldn't  come  home  and  climb 
them.  And  when,  over  and  over  again,  Mine,  de 
S.  came  to  the  door  and  couldn't  come  up,  and 
Mother  came  to  the  door  and  couldn't  come  up, 
and  when  I,  when  I  did  come  up,  was  alone,  I 
finally  broke  the  spell.  Now  I  have  enlarged  my 
horizon,  and  I  can  open  hospitable  doors. 

When  I  came  over  here  this  time,  I  lay  in  my 
bed  on  these  wonderful  summer  mornings  and 
watched  the  little  shadows  of  the  Golden  People 
crossing  the  ceiling,  and  I  said  :  "  Now,  I  am 
going  to  sit  here  and  see  who  cares  enough  for  me 
to  come.  And  whoever  does,  and  whatever 
golden  person  crosses  my  life  now,  is  going  to 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

come  in  and  make  it,  and  I  shall  open  the  door." 
I  stood  at  the  window  of  the  study  and  looked  out 
at  the  lonely,  lonely  streets,  crossing  which  no 
vehicle  came  any  more  bringing  me  guests  whose 
sweet  presence  made  the  happiness  of  my  life  ; 
and  I  said  :  "  The  day  will  dawn  surely  when 
some  one  will  break  through  this  lonely  barrier 
and  come." 

It  is  only  two  months  ago — not  quite  that — 
and  when  I  first  got  here  the  restlessness  was 
terrible.  I  wanted  to  make  Mother  comfortable 
and  rush  back  to  New  York.  I  wanted  to  go 
anywhere,  away  from  this  cruel  solitude,  where 
the  very  echoes  made  me  weep.  And  then — 
a  transformation  occurred  in  me,  and  something 
changed.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  have  been 
content  to  wait,  to  do  nothing,  to  wander  about 
the  little  house  in  a  sincere  peace,  to  arrange  my 
things  with  pleasure  ;  and  I  have  loved  it  as  never 
before. 

Don't  think  that  this  is  illogical  and  para- 
doxical, because  I  am  shedding  the  shell  like  a 
chrysalis.  Remember  I  am  only  going  next  door. 
The  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon  is  mine  still — but 
I've  gone  up  higher.  .  .  . 

With  deep  love  to  all  the  Golden  People, 

As  ever, 

M. 
264 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
To  Miss  Foote,  New  York. 

PARIS,  Aug.  3rd,  1915. 

My  DEAR  MARY, 

You  can't  think  how  glad  I  am  that 
fate  has  given  you  the  trip  across  the  continent, 
and  the  change  of  scene  and  rest  that  it  must  all 
mean  to  you.  Of  course  I  should  have  loved  to 
have  seen  you  here,  and  in  many  ways  the  ex- 
perience would  have  been  wonderful  for  you. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  dare  say  that  America 
offers,  in  many  ways,  a  greater  stimulus  just 
now. 

Here,  for  the  civilians,  things  are  calm. 
Forain  has  added  to  his  fame  and  made  himself 
more  immortal  than  ever  by  his  wonderful  cartoon 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war  :  A  poilu  (common 
soldier),  filthy,  ragged,  saying  :  "  Pourvu  que  les 
civiles  tiennent ! "  It  has  become  an  epoch- 
making  dessin. 

Artist  that  you  are,  you  would  have  revelled 
in  the  beauty  I  have  seen,  in  the  pictures  that  I 
have  seen.  True  artist  that  you  are — one  of  the 
truest  I  know — how  you  would  have  responded 
to  everything  !  My  dear,  it  is  for  this  reason, 
perhaps,  that  I  write  you  to-day — sure,  across 
these  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles,  of  your 
responsive  sympathy. 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

One  after  another  of  these  semi-detached 
midsummer  streets  I  have  rolled  over,  in  and  out 
and  through,  in  a  little  yellow-wheeled  victoria, 
driven  by  a  toothless  and  agreeable  old  coachman, 
buying  on  all  sides  furniture  for  Violet,  for  two 
months  now.  The  work  has  been  so  absorbing, 
I  have  taken  it  so  seriously,  that  it  has  crowded 
out  my  own  work  entirely  and  made  me  a  semi- 
maniac.  Antique  furniture  buying  is  a  vice, 
there's  no  doubt  about  it.  All  absorption  in  any 
one  thing  is  a  vice.  And  I  begin  now  to  under- 
stand why  collectors  die  poor  and  why  collections 
are  sold.  But  I  speak  of  this  in  order  to  speak 
again  of  the  wonderful,  wonderful  streets,  here  in 
this  wonderful  city.  How  well  you  know  them, 
too  !  Mysterious,  vocal,  fascinating,  and  to-day 
appealing  and  pathetic.  All  around  the  patient, 
cleanly  industry  continues.  Filth  and  dirt  you 
almost  never  see  anywhere.  Indeed,  here  and 
there  are  lines  of  starving  and  fatherless,  waiting 
en  queue  before  the  doors  of  the  different  civil 
charities.  The  children  seem  more  than  ever 
beautiful :  bare-legged,  with  little  white  shoes 
and  stockings,  the  little  girls  are  too  sweet  for 
words  ;  but  one's  eyes  follow  now  more  tenderly 
the  little  boys,  the  little  sons  of  France,  coming  up 
to  replace  those  who  have  given  their  lives  as 
flowers  are  given.  And  it  seems  as  if  the  mothers 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

held  them  more  closely,  lead  them  more  needlessly 
by  the  hand — these  little  sons.  .  .  . 

Uniforms  everywhere,  of  course — sky-blue,  pale 
and  faded  by  the  trenches.  You  see  a  man  with 
three  decorations  across  his  breast — the  Legion  of 
Honour,  Military  Medal,  Croix  de  Guerre — and 
you  wonder  what  wonderful  bravery  this  simple- 
faced,  quiet-eyed  man  has  been  inspired  to. 
Three  stalwart  chaps  will  limp  along  there,  down 
by  the  Rue  Bonaparte  toward  the  quais — three 
men  with  only  three  legs  between  them.  This  you 
see  everywhere  ;  and  the  bandages  over  the  eyes 
of  the  totalty  blind.  .  .  . 

Let  me  give  you,  who  love  pictures,  these  : 
Up  on  the  Rue  Tournon,  a  very  low  old  window, 
up  in  a  very  old  house — one  of  those  extremely 
compressed  entresol  windows  with  latticed  panes  ; 
the  window  half  open,  and  on  the  left,  in  an  earthen 
jar,  masses  of  snowy  and  crimson  flox — nothing 
else.  Another  :  Out  here,  back  of  my  house,  is 
a  little  maison  de  rapport.  One  June  twilight, 
I  saw  a  little  dressmaker  sitting  in  the  window, 
her  pure  profile  sharp  against  the  darkness  of 
the  room  behind  her,  dressed  in  a  little  camisole 
as  classic  as  though  it  had  belonged  to  Charlotte 
Corday.  Across  the  window-sill  a  soldier's  coat 
of  blue.  By  her  side,  in  a  common  pitcher,  was  a 
great  bunch  of  Madonna  lilies.  She  was  sitting 
267 


WAR   LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

dreaming — wondering,  no  doubt,  if  the  next 
passing  of  the  postman  would  bring  her  one  of 
those  stampless  cards  from  the  trenches.  .  .  . 

The  pictures  are  many  :  they  are  countless. 
I  could  not  begin,  my  dear  Mary,  to  tell  you  half 
of  them  ;  but  I  wish  indeed  that  you  were  here  to 
see.  When  one  has  time  to  think  of  it,  the  con- 
stant effort  all  about,  and  on  every  side,  the 
vividness  and  liveness  of  that  living  and  vibrant 
cordon  humain  which  has  stretched  nearly  six 
hundred  miles,  is  electrifying  beyond  words. 
How  real  it  makes  real  things  seem !  How 
glorious  it  makes  real  love  seem  !  For  nothing 
could  hold  against  the  force  of  that  steel  machine 
and  against  the  irony  and  the  iron  of  forty  years 
of  plan  and  plot,  and  an  intent  and  design  to 
possess  and  to  kill,  but  Love  .  .  .  the  love  of 
wife  and  child,  and  lover  and  home,  the  love  of 
country.  The  hands  that  are  pressed  against 
the  invader  now  are  the  hands  of  those  who  for 
nearly  half  a  century  have  been  making  for  peace. 
Therefore,  they  are  not  mailed.  They  are  flesh 
and  blood.  They  are  the  fine  and  delicate  hands 
of  the  poets,  the  artists,  the  men  of  thought  and 
of  spirit,  the  hands  of  the  industrials,  of  those 
who  have  been  making  fine  and  beautiful  things, 
whilst  the  Germans  were  making  shot  and  shell. 
These  hands  seem  to  be  a  very  hedge  of  defence, 
268 


mutely  calling  upon  God  to  bless  them.  So,  with 
me,  see  them  pressed  against  the  invader  to  force 
him  out  of  the  devastated  lands.  Is  it  strange, 
as  we  look,  that  they  almost  seem  to  us  to  bear 
the  glorified  stigmata  ?  ...  So,  as  I  think  of  the 
power  of  love,  it  seems  more  than  ever  greater 
than  anything  else  in  the  world  ;  and  in  this  way 
you  may  look  upon  this  as  a  spiritual  war,  in  the 
face  of  which  peace  is  ignoble,  and  only  effort  is 
divine,  .  .  .  I  do  not  think  that  any  love,  however 
unfulfilled,  is  in  vain.  I  cannot  believe  it  any 
longer  at  the  close  of  this  strange,  terrible  and 
beautiful  year.  My  heart  has  gone  out  so  con- 
stantly to  those  robbed  of  their  beloved  by  death. 
They  are  all  around  me,  everywhere — known  and 
unknown.  And  my  heart,  too,  goes  out  so  deeply 
to  those  who,  as  it  is  called,  love  in  vain,  though 
there  is  no  such  thing.  To  be  able  to  love  at  all 
is  so  marvellous  that  no  matter  what  suffering  it 
brings,  life  is  only  worth  living  through  that  agony, 
through  that  passion,  through  that  poignant, 
ever-demanding  pain.  Pity  those  who  cannot 
love,  not  those  who  do,  no  matter  whether  they 
lose  or  gain. 

I  am  sure — I  know — that  you  understand  me 
as  perhaps  no  one  else  can. 

Everything  has  dignity  through  this — every- 
thing has  a  raison  d'etre  through  this.  Only  by 
269 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

this  is  anything  ever  created  and  made.  I  under- 
stand so  well  that  great,  far-reaching  demand  and 
cry  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  need,  for  the  response 
and  for  the  answer  ;  but  even  in  the  face  of  com- 
plete renunciation,  in  the  face  of  inevitable  loss, 
in  the  face  of  what  we  all  call  failure  and  renuncia- 
tion, I  say  again  :  Love  completely  and  call  your- 
self only  happy  when  you  can. 

Write  me  a  line  and  think  of  me,  as  I  know  you 
always  do. 

As  ever, 

Devotedly, 

M. 


F.  B.  Van  Vorst,  Esq. 

PARIS,  August  4th,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  FREDERICK, 

I  have  not  quite  understood  about  the 
war  souvenirs.  I  have  ordered  to  be  bought  for 
you  all  the  notices  publicly  posted  in  the  streets 
since  the  day  of  mobilisation,  and  have  already 
received  thirteen,  costing  ten  francs  apiece. 
It  will  be  quite  a  pacquet  of  documents,  if  I  can 
get  them  all.  Some  of  the  souvenirs  are  very 
interesting  ones,  and  I  am  going  to  send  them  by 
the  American  Express.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  get 
you  a  copy  of  the  Mobilisation  Order,  but  they 
270 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

are  hard  to  get,  and  very  scarce.  I  heard  that 
Von  Schoen,  the  ex-German  Ambassador  here, 
got  one  through  some  one  at  the  American 
Embassy,  and  had  to  pay  frs.6ooo  for  it !  Another 
man  paid  frs.i5oo,  but  there  is  just  a  chance  that 
I  may  be  able  to  get  one  for  about  sixty  francs — 
under  a  hundred,  anyway. 

Your  mother  is  remarkably  well  and  walked 
from  her  house  nearly  here  the  other  day. 

Things  aren't  half  as  bad  as  they  seem  to  you 
in  America,  because  you  get  the  German  "  news." 
The  stories  of  bravery  and  devotion  are  legion. 
One  fine  little  woman  who  had  married  a  hair- 
dresser and  was  only  used  to  homely,  feminine 
duties,  took  on  his  shop  when  he  went  to  the  front, 
and  learned  the  business,  so  that  now  she  is  a 
capable  little  shopkeeper  and  hairdresser,  and  said 
in  speaking  of  her  husband  on  the  firing  line  : 
"  Oh,  I've  long  given  up  wondering  how  he  will 
come  home — whether  whole  or  maimed.  Now  I 
only  say,  When  he  comes  back,  if  he  comes  back. 
It  doesn't  matter  how.  I  can  work  for  him  and 
take  care  of  him.  All  I  ask  is  that  he  may 
return."  This  is  the  magnificent  spirit  of  all  the 
French  women. 

With  much  love, 

Your  devoted  sister, 

M. 
271 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


To  Mrs.  William  K.  Vanderbilt,  Newport. 

4,  PLACE  DU  PALAIS  BOURBON, 

PARIS,  Aug.  1915. 

DEAREST  ANNE, 

It  is  a  long  time  since  I  had  your 
letter.  I  think  of  you  very  often,  although 
I  have  been  silent.  Your  presence  is  everywhere 
in  the  place  where  only  last  year  I  grew  to 
know  you  for  the  first  time. 

You  can't  think  how  impressive  it  is  to  be  in 
a  city  that  is  almost  deserted.  When  I  tell  you 
that  one  day  I  drove  from  the  Trocadero  to  the 
Pont  Alexandre,  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  without 
meeting  a  single  vehicle,  it  will  give  you  an  idea  of 
the  desolateness  of  these  streets.  And  the  crowd, 
too,  is  such  a  peculiar  one — all  the  men  old  or 
frail-looking.  One  wonders  where  the  singular 
inhabitants  who  have  suddenly  appeared  upon 
the  scene  keep  themselves  in  normal  times. 

Wandering  about  alone,  as  I  have  been  doing 
a  great  deal  lately,  I  have  gone  into  many  of  the 
churches  and  prayed  at  the  different  shrines, 
and  it  is  impressive  to  see  the  character  of  those 
who  come  in  to  pray.  Men  who  can  never  kneel 
again  ;  men  who  sit  with  bandaged  eyes  before 
the  lighted  altars,  for  whom  all  the  visions  of 
the  world  have  been  blotted  out  for  ever  ;  the 
272 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

poor  women  in  their  little  shawls  ;  women  in 
their  crape  veils  ;  the  man  going  to  the  Front ; 
the  man  who  has  come  back  from  it,  never  to 
take  an  active  part  in  life  again  ;  and  the  women 
who  ask  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  to  remember 
theirs.  This  morning  I  went  to  St.  Etienne  du 
Mont  just  before  noon.  Around  the  tomb  of 
Saint  Genevieve  were  burning  several  very  high 
candles.  The  woman  told  me  they  would  burn 
for  four  days,  and  I  lit  one  in  memory  of  the  patron 
saint  of  Paris  and  left  it  standing  high  and  white, 
spiritual  and  beautiful,  in  the  corner  of  the  dark 
old  church. 

The  sacredness  of  Paris  now  blends  with  its 
beauty,  and  the  city  itself  seems  to  keep — in 
absence  of  millions  of  feet  who  used  to  tread  its 
streets,  hi  absence  of  the  heavy,  noisy  vehicles 
that  are  doing  their  duty  as  transports,  in  absence 
of  all  the  tourist  and  stranger  throngs  that  never 
were  of  it — Paris  seems  to  have  gone  back  into 
the  dim  past,  expressed  by  these  relics  that 
remain :  the  churches,  the  Louvre,  the  Tour 
Saint- Jacques,  the  tumble-down  streets  ;  and 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place,  as  I  have 
seen  it  this  summer,  has  been  one  of  the  most 
sympathetic  and  charming  things  that  you  could 
possibly  imagine. 

My  mother  was  eighty-one  years  of  age 
273  s 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

yesterday.  She  celebrated  it  by  walking  up  the 
three  flights  of  stairs  to  my  apartment,  to  see  one 
or  two  of  the  lovely  bits  of  furniture  that  I  have 
been  buying.  Last  year  she  was  a  refugee  in 
England ;  this  year  she  is  revelling  in  her  little 
home,  spared  to  her  because  of  England's  help. 

A  very  agreeable  Abbe  dined  with  me  last 
night.  He  toldjne  that  he  was  giving  absolution 
to  one  dying  German  boy — only  sixteen — on  the 
field,  and  he  put  his  hand  under  the  boy's  head 
and  lifted  it,  and  the  boy,  who  was  delirious, 
simply  said  :  "  Mama,  mama,  mama  !  "  And 
the  Abbe  said  to  me  :  "  It  is  a  very  curious  thing, 
but  in  all  the  dying  appeals  I  have  ever  heard, 
it  is  always  for  the  mother."  That  return,  perhaps, 
to  the  lost  childhood — the  call  just  before  going 
to  sleep.  .  .  . 

You  speak  to  me  about  your  summer  being  an 
unsatisfactory  one.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
it  can't  be  that,  knowing  you.  Wherever  you 
are,  you  have  done  good  and  splendid  things, 
vivifying  and  inspiring  and  encouraging  those 
near  you.  I  scarcely  know  of  any  presence  more 
stimulating,  more  impelling  to  action,  and  I 
envy  those  who  have  had  the  pleasure  of  your 
sweet  companionship. 

To-night  is  one  of  the  nights  of  full  harvest 
moon.  The  skies  have  been  so  marvellous  lately, 
274 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

thickly  sown  with  summer  stars,  and  it  is  an 
impossible  thing  to  those  who  have  not  seen  those 
dreadful  and  distant  fields  to  imagine  the  horror 
that  is  going  on  so  near  these  cities  which  that 
constant,  magnificent  courage,  that  limitless 
sacrifice,  protect. 

One  day  when  I  was  giving  electricity  lately 
at  the  Ambulance,  a  poor  little  Zouave  hobbled 
in — he  had  only  one  leg  left — and  held  up  a  maimed 
hand  for  me  to  treat.  He  was  not  a  very  interest- 
ing-looking specimen — rather  sullen  and  dis- 
couraged, I  thought — but  as  I  looked  at  his  frail 
little  body  and  his  disfigured  hand,  I  looked  at 
his  breast  too.  Three  medals  were  on  it — the 
Legion  of  Honour,  the  Croix  de  Guerre,  and  the 
Medaille  Militaire — all  a  man  can  get  1  And  he 
was  just  a  little  soldier  of  Africa — a  nondescript 
man  whose  name  would  only  he  heard  at  other 
times  to  be  forgotten. 

Jacquemin. 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait  pour  me*riter 
tout  cela,  mon  ami  ?  " 

Pour  meriter  tout  cela,  parbleu  !  He  has  one 
leg  only,  one  hand  only,  and  he  has  back  of  him 
eight  months  of  hospital  and  eight  months  of 
horror,  for  his  sufferings  have  been  beyond 
words. 

Jacquemin  ! 

275 


Oh,  his  name  is  pretty  well  known  now  in  a 
certain  Sector  ! 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait  pour  meriter 
tout  cela  ?  " 

Three  medals  across  that  narrow  chest ! 

Well,  alone,  on  a  bad  night,  in  storm  and  rain, 
he  was  a  volunteer  patrol.  Alone,  he  brought  in 
four  German  prisoners.  He  was  a  volunteer  for 
six  patrouilles  of  the  gravest  danger — not  always 
alone,  but  always  fetching  in  prisoners  and  more 
prisoners.  Bad  for  the  Germans.  He  carried 
his  superior  officer,  wounded,  out  under  fire  and 
saved  his  life.  Then  there  was  a  line  of  trenches 
where  a  hundred  and  fifty-six  men — they  know 
his  name :  Jacquemin  !  Jacquemin  with  the 
little  mongrel  dog  always  at  his  heels — a  hundred 
and  fifty-six  men  had  eaten  nothing  for  four  days 
but  the  sodden  bread  left  in  their  haversacks. 
Jacquemin  filled  several  wagons  full  of  bread  and 
seating  himself  on  the  driver's  seat  of  the  first, 
he  drove  in  that  life-giving  line  under  the  fire  of 
shot  and  shell,  right  into  the  very  jaws  of  death. 
He  brought  sufficient  supplies  to  save  the  line  of 
trenches,  for  otherwise  they  would  have  had  to 
evacuate  them  through  starvation,  as  indeed 
was  the  case  with  others  where  thjs  gay  little 
Zouave  could  not  reach.  Just  the  giving  of  food 
to  the  faint  and  hungry  men  whosf  stern  faces 
276 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

were  set  against  death.  That  act  brought  him 
one  of  those  medals  across  his  breast — I  forget 
which.  Finally,  the  shot  and  shell  which  he  had 
braved  so  many  times  was  bound  to  get  him,  and 
with  his  leg  and  arm  almost  shot  away  he  lay  for 
dead  amongst  the  other  slain,  and  they  buried 
him.  They  buried  Jacquemin.  Fortunately  or 
unfortunately — it  depends  upon  how  he  regards 
a  life  which  he  will  live  through  henceforth  with 
only  one  leg  and  only  one  arm — a  little  bit  of 
his  soldier's  coat  sprouted  out  of  the  ground. 
(They  don't  always  bury  deep  on  those  fields.) 
And  his  dog  saw  it  and  smelled  and  dug  and  dug, 
and  whined  and  cried,  until  they  came  and  un- 
buried  Jacquemin  and  brought  him  back. 

He  is  sitting  up  there  at  the  Ambulance  now, 
and  his  little  dog  is  sometimes  in  the  kitchen 
and  sometimes  comes  up  to  the  wards. 

Jacquemin  ! 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  fait  pour  meriter 
tout  cela,  mon  ami  ?  " 

What  countless  thousands  of  them  have  done, 
all  along  those  lines — Englishmen  and  Frenchmen, 
Scotchmen  and  Irishmen,  Indians,  Australians, 
Canadians — hearts  and  souls  and  bodies  offered 
up  magnificently  and  valiantly  sacrificed  for  the 
greatest  Cause  for  which  humanity  has  ever 
fought  !  Jacquemin  brought  them  bread  to  the 
277 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

fighting  line ;    and  that  great  fighting  line,  by 
its  efforts,  is  giving  bread  for  ever  to  the  world.  .  . . 

You  may,  my  dear,  know  this  poor  chap, 
Jacquemin,  well.  Perhaps  he  was  in  your  own 
ward.  Indeed,  my  dear  Anne,  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  you  had  stood  beside  him  through 
some  of  his  dreadful  dressings.  But  then  again, 
he  may  have  been  one  of  the  many  who  came  in 
just  after  you  left. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  long,  long  to  be  in 
America  now ;  nor  can  I  believe  for  a  moment 
that  my  people  do  not  voice  the  sentiments  and 
the  hopes  and  the  patriotism  of  the  Allies.  It 
could  not  be  otherwise.  .  .  . 

The  other  day  I  wrote  my  first  article  in 
French,  and  the  Echo  de  Paris  has  accepted  it 
and  asked  me  for  more.  Of  course  you  can't 
imagine  how  surprised  I  am,  and  how  perfectly 
delighted  to  find  that  I  could  dictate  in  French 
an  article  that  a  first-class  journal  would  accept 
without  corrections  !  Monsieur  Jules  Simon  told 
me  so  himself.  I  will  send  it  to  you. 

My  dear,  let  me  congratulate  you  with  all 
my  heart  on  the  recognition  of  your  work  by  the 
French  Government.  I  am  so  glad.  How  deeply 
and  entirely  you  deserve  it ! 

As  ever, 

M.  V. 
278 


To  Mme.  Hugues  Le  Roux,  Tokio,  Japan. 

PARIS,  Aug.  1915. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

All  day  to-day  I  have  been  anxious, 
thinking  of  you  on  the  Touraine  crossing  to 
Bordeaux.  The  news  of  the  Arabic  and  its 
sinking,  with  the  loss  of  life,  was  not  reassuring 
to  any  one  whose  dear  ones  were  putting  out  to 
sea.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  what  this  week 
of  anxiety  would  be. 

Yesterday  I  went  down  to  the  Matin  and 
saw  Robert's  secretary.  Mr.  Dumont  told  me 
that  there  was  a  question  of  your  going  to  the 
Far  East — Japan,  Petrograd,  and  so  forth. 
You  can  imagine  with  what  mingled  feelings  I 
heard  this  news. 

I  have  always  thought  that  perhaps  you  were 
the  one  person  in  the  world  whom  I  unselfishly 
love  (except  my  mother),  because  in  what  is 
good  for  you  I  can  forget  myself.  You  can 
imagine  how  keen  this  loneliness  is  here.  Nobody 
knows  better  than  you  wh^  Paris  is  when  one 
is  utterly  alone.  My  absorption  in  buying  Violet's 
furniture  is  at  an  end,  for  I  have  almost  completed 
her  purchases  and  the  second  invoice  went  to-day. 
Mme.  de  S.  is  at  the  seaside,  and  there  is  not 
one  human  creature  in  the  place  with  whom  I 
279 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

can  exchange  a  word.     Nor  will  there  be  until 
you  return. 

No  words  can  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that 
you  are  going  to  have  this  marvellous  and  beauti- 
ful experience.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be 
the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  to  go  off  into  those 
wonderful  countries  with  the  person  you  love 
best  for  interesting  work.  What  could  be  more 
ideal  ? 

I  look  back  and  think  now,  my  dear,  of  all 
those  cruelly  hard  years  of  yours  spent  here  in 
anxiety  and  toil  and  loneliness,  and  in  many 
instances  overshadowed  by  such  dreadful  griefs  ; 
and  in  contrast  now  your  happy  marriage  and 
the  opening  up  to  you  of  far  horizons  and  the 
companionship  always  near  you  of  the  one  you 
love  the  best.  Both  mother  and  Hilda  feared 
very  much,  I  think,  for  my  disappointment 
when  this  news  should  come  of  your  prolonged 
absence  and  the  great  distance  between  us ; 
but  I  want  you  to  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I 
have  not  had  one  selfish  thought  about  it — I 
might  say,  no  regret.  Everything  is  sad  here, 
intensely  sad.  I  could  not  wish  for  you  to  return 
to  these  scenes  just  now. 

I  am  sorry,   darling,  that  you  will  not  see 
ever    again    this    little    home — probably.     But 
after  all,  nothing  makes  much  difference  in  these 
280 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

moments  of  change.  When  you  come  back,  if 
I  am  here  at  all,  I  will  be  installed  at  No.  6.  I 
have  told  you  nothing  of  what  I  have  been  doing 
lately,  but  in  buying  all  this  enormous  lot  of 
things  for  Violet,  I've  come  across  one  or  two 
very  beautiful  objects,  and  I  have  bought  two 
perfectly  wonderful  Louis  XV.  lacquer  desks, 
worth  from  five  to  ten  thousand  dollars  apiece, 
Of  course  I  have  paid  no  such  prices  as  these  for 
them.  They  are  like  jewels.  One  is  Vernet 
Martin  black,  with  golden  figures  and  turquoise 
blue  inside.  To-night,  my  dear,  it  stands  hi 
the  little  salon,  in  the  place  of  the  old  Dutch 
bureau  we  know  so  well ;  and  over  it  hangs  an 
exquisite  little  group  by  a  pupil  of  Boucher.  And 
in  the  doorway  near  the  dining-room  is  a  red 
lacquer  bureau,  with  a  pinkish  marble  top — the 
most  beautiful  piece  of  furniture  I  ever  saw.  It 
is  a  perfect  gem.  Some  of  the  little  things  I 
have  seen  in  this  moment  of  disintegration  I 
have  bought  for  very  little  and  shall  keep, 
I  hope ;  so  you  will  see  them  in  the  new  home. 

Dearest  Bessie,  take  care  of  yourself  in  every 
way — about  disease  and  danger.  I  shall  pray  for 
you  devoutly. 

I  have  just  spent  a  sweet  five  days  with  Mme. 
de  S.  at  Cabourg.  There  she  was,  in  a  tiny 
little  house,  all  alone  with  her  grief,  her  memories, 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  looking  into  a  future  devoid  of  interest.  It 
was  perfectly  lovely  to  be  with  her,  sad  though 
she  was.  I  loved  every  hour  of  my  little  stay. 
It  was  five  hours  in  the  train  each  way,  but  I 
was  glad  to  go.  She  was  like  a  sister  and  a 
mother  and  a  friend  all  in  one.  No  one  in  the 
world  is  like  her  to  me,  and  I  just  adore  her, 
there  is  no  other  word.  Two  or  three  times, 
quite  alone,  I  went  down  to  the  sea.  Never 
did  it  seern  more  marvellous  to  me  or  more 
inspiring.  All  the  Normandy  of  the  years  gone 
by  that  together  you  and  I  knew  and  loved  came 
back  again  with  its  tender  memories  and  met  me 
in  those  harvested  fields  and  on  that  wide,  smooth 
sea  floor.  I  looked  across  the  water  that  stretched 
to  where  you  were  and  thought  how  soon  you 
would  cross  it  to  me.  I  did  not  dream  that  it 
would  be  so  long.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear  !  memory 
after  memory  came  to  me,  until  sometimes  it 
seemed  that  I  could  not  bear  to  welcome  any 
more.  I  saw  again,  Bessie,  the  little  diligence 
climbing  the  Falaise  side  from  toward  Havre, 
and  you  and  me  on  it  going  down  to  welcome 
mother  and  John — do  you  know  how  many  years 
ago  ?  (I  will  not  mark  the  years.  As  I  stood 
there,  down  by  the  sea,  there  was  no  trace  of 
time  on  that  limitless  expanse.)  So  many  partings 
since  then  for  you  and  me — so  many,  many 
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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

tears,  long  years  of  struggle,  days  of  hope,  and 
days  of  despair.  There  have  been  safe  ports 
and  harbours,  and  you,  I  feel,  with  Robert,  have 
sailed  safely  into  yours.  You  see,  I  do  not  speak 
of  myself — I  can't. 

You  must  feel,  I  think,  my  dear,  as  you  read 
this,  that  these  last  few  months — I  will  not  say 
years — have  made  some  change  (I  hope  for  the 
good)  in  me.  Certainly  I  don't  complain  and  be- 
moan my  lonely  fate  as  I  used.  Sometimes  I 
wonder  if  my  unusual  tranquillity  is  a  kind  of 
despair,  or  a  renunciation — if  it  presages  some  dis- 
aster, or  if  it  is  only  the  threshold  of  age.  You  see, 
I  dare  not  hope  that  it  may  be  the  threshold  of  joy. 
Oh,  I  assure  you  that,  standing  there  that  early 
morning  as  I  did,  never,  never  have  I  felt  so  near 
to  the  truly  spiritual  things  of  life.  By  this  I 
don't  mean  religious  things,  but  the  things  of 
soul. 

All  around  me  were  the  tiny  red  and  white 
tents — here  and  there  a  bright  yellow  one — the 
little  pleasure  houses  of  the  few  who  this  year 
have  gone  down  for  the  summer  to  the  sea.  And 
everywhere  were  the  sweet,  charming  little 
children  playing,  bare-legged,  on  the  sand.  I 
watched  them  build  their  miniature  forts — little 
Frenchmen  playing  at  war.  I  watched  them 
with  their  pretty  games,  and  I  tried  to  see  myself 
283 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

sitting  there  with  a  book,  watching  a  child.  I 
tried,  companionless  as  I  am,  to  see  myself 
standing  there  with  a  companion  by  my  side.  .  .  . 
Normandy  has  been  a  rich  field  for  the 
poets,  as  you  know,  and  for  the  thinkers  and 
idealists  from  England  and  from  France.  It 
is  a  very  country  of  dreams  and  song.  No 
one  knows  this  better  than  you  and  your  hus- 
band, who  is  a  Norman  born  and  who  loves 
every  inch  of  it.  I  think  of  that  wonderful 
collection  of  verse  that  I  have  loved  so  much 
for  years — you  know  it  well.  Its  meaning 
was  made  clear  to  me  by  John.  I  can  see  him 
now,  there  on  the  Norman  beach — tall,  distin- 
guished, with  the  little  red  book  in  his  hand, 
"  The  Midsummer  Holiday."  And  on  that  morn- 
ing, as  I  stood  alone  on  the  beach  after  all  these 
long,  long  years,  I  knew  for  the  first  time  why  I 
had  loved  that  verse  of  Swinburne's  so  :  and 
I  knew  for  the  first  time  what  it  meant. 

"  The  sea  is  at  ebb  and  the  sound  of  its  utmost  word 
Is  soft  as  a  least-wave's  laps  in  a  still  small  reach  ; 

From  seaward  ever  to  seaward,  in  search  of  a  goal  deferred , 
From  leeward  ever  to  leeward,  reach  on  reach, 
Till  earth  gives  ear  to  the  lesson  that  all  days  teach — 

With  changes  of  gladness  and  sadness  that  cheer  and  chide. 

The  long  way  lures  me  along  by  a  chance  untried, 
That  haply,  if  Hope  deceive  not  and  Faith  be  whole, 

Not  all  for  nought  do  we  seek,  with  a  dream  for  a  guide, 
The  Goal  that  is  not,  and  ever  again  the  Goal." 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

The  last  time  I  was  in  Normandy  was  when 
I  was  taking  back  to  England,  via  Dieppe, 
"  Amanda  of  the  Mill "  to  sell  in  London. 
That  winter,  if  you  remember,  I  had  been  very 
ill  in  Arragon,  Georgia ;  and  whilst  lying  down 
there — alone,  in  a  cotton  mill  town,  without 
anjr  nurse  or  any  doctor — in  a  moment  half  of 
delirium  and  half  of  consciousness,  I  made  a 
solemn  vow.  On  one  night  of  fever  in  that 
wretched  little  shanty,  I  prayed  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  I  said  that  if  she  would  heal  me  and 
restore  me  to  health,  so  that  I  might  write 
"  Amanda  of  the  Mill,"  I  would  be  a  Roman 
Catholic.  Of  course  I  never  kept  that  vow : 
but  that  summer,  in  Dieppe,  with  my  book  finished, 
I  remember  going  into  the  old  cathedral  there 
and  burning  a  candle  and,  thinking  of  my  vow, 
buying  a  rosary  and  prayer-book,  learning  the 
Ave  Maria  and  trying  to  pray  ;  and,  recalcitrant 
and  unwilling,  unconvinced  and  unbelieving, 
I  could  not.  and  did  not  fulfil  my  promise.  I 
never  have  ...  I  thought  of  all  this  as,  with 
Cousin  Lottie,  I  went  into  the  old  cathedral  at 
Caen  and  we  prayed  together  before  the  Virgin's 
shrine  for  the  souls  of  her  beloved  dead.  Indeed, 
as  I  went  into  that  church,  I  knelt  with  her 
unconsciously  before  a  cluster  of  lights  :  I  did 
not  know  where  I  was  kneeling,  but  when  I 
285 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

looked  up,  I  found  to  the  right  of  me  a  beautiful 
statue  of  the  Madonna.  It  seemed  very  strange. 
I  only  mention  all  this  as  I  seemed  so  singularly 
led  back  here,  after  many  years,  to  the  old  foot- 
steps, my  weary  feet  unconsciously  falling  just 
where  they  had  fallen  before.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  perfectly  lovely  Madame 
Augenard  has  been  to  me.  If  you  love  me,  you'll 
be  glad  and  touched  at  her  friendliness,  her  sister- 
liness,  and  her  real  goodness  to  me.  I  have  in 
her  an  honest  and  true  friend.  I  always  have 
had.  To-day  she  lunched  here  with  me,  with 
little  Nicole.  As  you  know  by  now,  she  has 
given  me,  to  inhabit  as  much  as  I  like,  a  beautiful 
little  house  on  her  estate.  The  Saturday  before 
I  went  to  Mme.  de  S.'s,  the  eve  of  the  fifteenth 
of  August — the  Feast  of  Mary — I  spent  at  her 
chateau.  As  I  wrote,  two  hundred  soldiers  are 
quartered  in  her  grounds,  sleeping  on  straw  in 
the  old  farm  buildings  and  commanded  by  Mme. 
de  S.'s  cousin,  the  Comte  de  Puy.  We  had 
just  seated  ourselves  at  dinner  when  outside  the 
chateau  gathered  a  little  group  of  the  soldiers 
with  their  musical  instruments,  and  they  played 
for  her  their  best  selections  hi  honour  of  her 
fete,  for  she  is  called,  as  you  know,  Marie.  We 
both  stood  there  in  the  window,  whilst  the 
men,  in  their  light  blue  uniforms,  played  their 
286 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

martial  tunes.  In  the  distance  was  the  fountain, 
splashing  and  dashing  its  waters.  A  little  further 
on,  the  clock  on  the  old  church  rang  the  hour ; 
and  far,  far  away,  muffled  but  audible,  was  the 
sound  of  the  guns  at  Soissons.  You  can't  think 
how  impressive  it  was — and  how  sad.  Mme. 
Augenard  went  down  the  steps  to  thank  the 
soldiers.  She  was  all  in  white,  and  over  her 
dress  a  dark-blue  Chinese  embroidered  coat,  and 
her  little  girl  came  down  and  stood  by  her 
side,  and  the  leader  of  the  band  brought  a  great 
bunch  of  country  flowers,  gathered  and  arranged 
by  soldiers,  and  presented  them  to  the  chatelaine 
for  her  fete.  Later  in  the  evening,  the  Comte  de 
Puy  and  Madame  Augenard  and  myself  stood 
in  the  starlight  by  the  fountain,  and  we  talked  of 
the  war.  .  .  . 

Next  week  I  am  taking  Hilda  and  Webb  and 
going  to  Salsomaggiore  to  rest  and  finish 
"  Carmichel's  Past."  From  far  Japan,  wish  me 
luck  and  good  fortune  as,  my  dearest,  darling 
Bessie,  I  wish  you  Godspeed  and  safe  home. 

Devotedly, 
M. 


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WAR   LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

August  4th,  1915. 

DEAREST  BELLE, 

It  seems  a  long  time  indeed  since  I've 
given  myself  the  luxury  of  a  real  letter  to  you. 
During  the  last  two  weeks  I  have  had  an  Italian 
guest,  to  whom  Paris  and  France  were  new,  and  it 
was  a  mutual  interest  to  see  what  one  can  see  of 
Paris  now  together — especially  to  do  things  with  a 
deeply  appreciative  and  keenly  sensitive  com- 
panion. Nothing  of  beauty  or  charm  escaped  him, 
from  the  smallest  detail. 

A  perfectly  killing  thing  happened  one  day. 
We  were  driving  in  the  victoria,  out  on  an  antique 
furniture  hunt,  when  way  down  the  boulevard  a 
Paris  gamin  sprang  on  the  step  of  the  carriage 
and  hurled  something  into  it.  I've  never  been  so 
startled  in  my  life  as  I  was  by  this  rush  into  our 
tranquil  moment.  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was 
the  head  of  a  German  or  a  dead  rat.  Gaetano 
peacefully  and  calmly  leaned  over  and  lifted 
up  a  black  kitten  which,  before  I  knew  it,  he  had 
as  calmly  planted  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  on 
the  other  side.  I  am  glad  to  say  it  rushed  off 
before  the  tram  came,  and  Gaetano  assured  me 
that  it  brought  the  best  of  luck. 

Then  I  must  also  note  that  one  night,  walking 
288 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

down  the  sightless,  gloomy,  shadowy  Champs 
Elysees  together  from  Mme.  de  S.'s,  at  eleven 
o'clock,  we  were  shadowed  by  an  apache. 
Although  many  nights  I  have  wandered  around 
here  entirely  alone,  I  was  scared  to  death,  and  I 
seized  Gaetano  by  the  arm  and  said  :  "  Let's 
run  !  "  He  stopped  quite  still  and  looked  at  me 
with  great  reproach,  and  said  :  "  Why,  you  seem 
to  forget  you're  with  a  man  !  Why  would  you 
run  ?  "  I  don't  know  whether  the  timidity  on  my 
part  had  charm  for  him  or  not ;  but  at  any  rate, 
as  I  looked  at  him,  so  big  and  strong,  muscular  and 
vigorous,  and  at  his  great  big  cane,  and  into  his 
quiet,  determined  face,  I  didn't  feel  afraid  any  more. 

I  never  have  seen  anything  so  beautiful  in  my 
life  as  Paris  has  been  on  these  divine  nights,  as 
we  have  driven  around  it  in  open  carriages  and  in 
motors.  It  is  almost  completely  dark  now,  with 
the  great  masses  of  Notre  Dame,  the  Louvre, 
the  Conciergerie,  and  the  spanning  shadows  of  the 
bridges  dark  and  blurring  softly  against  the 
moonlight  of  the  summer  nights,  or  darker 
shadows  on  the  overcast  evenings  ;  with  here  and 
there  just  a  light  or  two  from  a  window  or  a  low 
muted  lamp.  Paris  of  the  old,  old  days — so  easy 
to  reconstruct  and  to  imagine  ! 

On  Sunday  morning  I  went  out  to  St.  Germain, 
where  Mme.  Marie  met  me  with  her  motor  and 
289  T 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

took  me  out  to  the  lovely  chateau  that  she  has 
bought  in  Seine-et-Oise.  It  is  a  Francis  Premier 
property,  surrounded  by  great  moats  all  grown  in 
with  ivy  and  grass.  Her  chateau  itself  is  modern, 
but  her  gardens  and  fields  are  too  lovely  for  words. 
She  has  four  hundred  soldiers  quartered  in  the 
farms,  and  at  luncheon  what  was  my  surprise  to 
find  that  the  Commandant  was  no  other  than  the 
Comte  de  Puy,  Cousin  Lottie's  dearest  cousin — 
a  man  I  know  very  well !  We  had  a  most  agree- 
able time,  and,  of  course,  he  told  us  wonderful 
things  of  the  campaign.  He  was  sixteen  days 
in  one  trench  without  being  able  to  leave  it — 
without  once  being  able  to  stand  upright ;  and 
he  says  that  no  one  who  has  ever  smelt  it  will 
ever  forget  the  smell  of  a  German  soldier  !  The 
filth  and  the  dirt  and  the  sordid  awfulness  of  the 
Germans  they  took  prisoners  at  that  time  was 
beyond  words.  This  was  hi  the  early  part  of  the 
war,  on  the  first  line  of  battle. 

To  the  left  of  Mme.  Marie's  property  is  one  of 
the  sweetest  little  bits  of  masonry  you  ever  saw 
in  your  life.  It  is  part  of  an  old  tower,  built  in 
the  time  of  Fran9ois  I. — unchanged,  pinkish  brick 
and  brown  stone.  It  was  built  for  the  archers  to 
climb  up  into  and  from  its  windows  to  look  over 
the  wonderful  Norman  plains  for  their  foes.  The- 
moat  runs  round  it,  and  now,  from  one  window, 
290 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

one  sees  the  new  rose  gardens,  the  lovely  shaded 
alleys,  and  the  fairy -like  Norman  fields.  The 
little  place  has  undergone  many  changes,  the  late 
proprietors  having  turned  it  into  a  grapery  and 
fruit  house,  because  it  is  so  dry  and  healthy.  In 
the  high,  high  cellars  are  wooden  beams  and  a  big 
furnace,  and  there's  an  outside  staircase.  One 
goes  directly  in  to  a  good-sized  room  with  a  bow 
window  looking  on  the  fosse.  Then  there  are 
two  other  tiny  rooms  with  cunning  little  views, 
two  bedrooms,  a  charming  parlour,  dining-room 
and  study  all  in  one,  and  place  for  a  little  bath- 
room. Upstairs  is  the  serre  chaude — a  great  big 
warm  greenhouse,  where  one  could  make  an 
enchanting  jardin  d'hiver.  With  the  outlay  of 
very  little  money,  this  tiny  place  could  be  trans- 
formed into  a  dream  of  a  place  to  go  and  pass  the 
Sunday  or  a  few  quiet  days.  As  I  write  of  it, 
doesn't  it  sound  sweet  ?  Can't  you  smell  the 
Norman  hayfields,  wafting  in  their  sweetness  ? 
If  you  could  hear  the  charming  tone  of  the  little 
church  bell — for  the  church  and  just  a  handful 
of  quaint  little  houses  fling  themselves  against 
the  chateau  wall.  From  this  little  pavilion  you 
could  almost  put  out  your  hand  and  set  the  hands 
of  the  village  church  clock  !  .  .  .  .  Well,  I  have 
lots  of  friends  who  have  beautiful  places,  but  none 
of  them  have  given  me  a  little  pavilion  to  which 
291 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  can  flee  and  which  I  can  adore.  Mme.  Marie 
has.  And  next  week  she  is  coming  to  town  to 
choose  the  papers  ;  she  is  going  to  paint  and  paper 
it  with  her  exquisite  taste,  she  is  going  to  put 
in  the  bathroom,  and  I  am  going  to  give  the  bath- 
tub and  lavabo  ;  and  we're  going  to  fix  it  up 
together,  and  there  I  can  go  when  I  like.  And 
when  the  weather  gets  hot  in  Paris,  I  am  going  to 
take  Miss  Methley  and  finish  my  book  there. 
It  is  restful  just  to  think  of  it,  as  Miss  Methley 
says  as  she  writes  this  letter.  I  am  just  spring- 
ing it  on  her,  as  it  was  sprung  on  me :  and  if  I 
never  go,  and  if  I  never  see  it  again,  I  can't  forget 
the  generous  sweetness  of  my  old  friend,  for 
whom  I've  always  had  an  affection  and  whom 
I  have  known  now  for  twenty  years.  Of  course, 
her  mania  is  to  furnish  and  install,  but  it's  very 
nice  that  she  wants  to  include  me  in  this  exquisite 
installation.  I  felt  quite  differently  about  the 
country  when  I  left  it  this  time.  The  whole 
thing  is  so  charming  and  so  exquisite.  Little 
places  are  horrible  as  a  rule,  but  a  perfect  little 
place  on  an  enormous,  beautiful  estate  is  another 
thing.  If  the  affair  works,  I  can  fit  up  a  tiny 
kitchen  downstairs,  which  I  shall  want  to  do,  and 
be  chez  moi  entirely.  At  any  time  I  can  take  out  a 
friend — for  there  will  be  two  bedrooms  and  we  are 
quite  apart  from  the  chateau. 
292 


So  much  wonderful  kindness  has  been  shown 
me  in  these  old  countries.  I  can  never  forget  the 
goodness  poured  upon  me  ;  and  of  course  I  feel 
that  in  turn  I  should  be  willing  to  pour  out 
myself  into  hands  that  are  stretched  out  to 
receive.  .  .  . 

I  am  sure  that  I  make  you  feel  something  of  the 
rich,  beautiful  atmosphere  of  that  Norman  land 
as  I  saw  it  this  week.  Through  the  little  village 
pass  only  soldiers,  to  and  from  the  towns  : 
soldiers  of  the  reserve,  soldiers  of  the  entrench- 
ments around  Paris  ;  and  some  going  home.  In 
the  far  distance,  when  the  wind  was  (let  us  say) 
cruel,  we  heard  the  heavy  thunder  of  the  German 
guns  bombarding  Soissons,  only  sixty  kilometres 
away.  Ecquivilly  is  only  a  few  miles  from  St. 
Germain  and  a  few  miles  from  Trouville,  and  if 
Bessie  is  at  St.  Germain  in  September,  and  Cousin 
Lottie  at  Trouville,  it  will  be  amusing  to  be  myself 
between  them  both.  Of  course  it  may  be  only  a 
dream.  It  seems  too  much  to  count  on  to  have 
an  exquisite  little  country  place.  .  .  . 

It  seems  terrible  to  write  of  material  things, 
doesn't  it  ?  when  the  great  spiritual  struggle  is 
going  on  everywhere.  For  some  reason  or  other, 
I  have  not  bought  one  of  these  beautiful  objects 
which  I  have  purchased  lately  without  feeling 
that  I  was  possessing  something  more  of  this 
293 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

beautiful  country's  art — keeping  and  protecting 
something  more  of  France  for  posterity. 

One  of  the  guests  at  Mme.  Marie's  had  come 
from  Arras,  where  her  chateau,  with  all  her 
treasures  gathered  together  for  forty  years — 
everything — had  been  stolen,  sent  back  to 
Germany,  and  her  place  reduced  to  powder. 
Your  blood  would  boil  if  you  could  hear  the  Comte 
de  Puy's  stories — that  is,  if  it  hasn't  boiled  and 
overflowed  already. 

I  am  very  interested  in  writing  you  this  letter 
to-day,  my  dear,  from  this  little  home,  which  I 
left  just  a  year  ago  last  Saturday  in  such  haste 
and  distress.  It  seems  strange,  doesn't  it  ?  Then 
I  was  planning  for  destruction  and  disintegration  ; 
and  now,  in  the  same  country,  still  under  menace, 
still  with  horrors  around  us,  I  find  courage  to 
plan  for  new  footholds  on  this  land.  France  seems 
peculiarly  sacred  to  me,  its  ground  watered  by  the 
blood  of  those  brave  and  gallant  sons.  Its  very 
wings  seem  lifted  by  invisible  hands.  Nothing 
in  history  has  ever  been  more  wonderful  than  its 
great,  patient  effort  against  a  horrible  invading 
force,  against  every  quality  that  we  all  despise, 
and  against  which,  with  one  common  interest,  we 
fight  and  have  fought  for  generations. 

It  is  just  a  year  ago  last  night  since  Henry 
Dadvisard  ran  down  the  stairs  in  the  Rue  Galilee, 
294 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

after  bidding  good-bye  to  Mme.  de  S.  When 
he  got  to  the  last  stair,  there  in  the  hall  were 
grouped  all  the  servants,  to  wish  him  God- 
speed— the  women  first,  and  the  valets  and  other 
men  at  the  door.  Mme.  de  S.,  whom  he  had 
kissed  and  strained  to  his  heart,  twice  turning  and 
running  back  upstairs  to  kiss  her  again — watched 
him.  The  cook  had  been  thirty  years  in  the  house  ; 
he  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  and  wrung  her  hands. 
Then,  when  he  came  to  the  men  at  the  door, 
he  bade  them  care  for  his  adopted  mother  loyally 
and  well ;  and  to  the  little  footman  who  held  the 
door  open  for  him,  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on 
Albert's  shoulder  :  "  Toi,  mon  petit,  je  te  reverrai 
la-bas."  How  strange  and  how  beautiful  1  Henry 
Dad  visard  went  to  his  regiment,  joined  later — as 
you  know — the  infantry,  and  there,  in  that 
company,  "  la-bas  " — was  poor  little  Albert, 
frail  wraith  of  humanity  that  he  was — only  nine- 
teen. He  carried  the  flag,  and  he  fell  two  days 
after  Henry,  on  the  same  glorious  field.  .  .  . 

I  think  the  expression  "  La-bas  "  thrilling  and 
expressive  beyond  words. 

I  found  Mme.  de  S.  last  night  weeping  over 
the  crowding  memories  that  each  anniversary  of 
these  days  brings.  "  I  have  been  able,"  she  said, 
"  to  remember  each  day,  and  he  has  seemed  living 
to  me  until  now.  Now — to-night — as  once  more  I 
295 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

seem  to  see  him  run  down  those  stairs  and  go, 
he  is  gone."  .  .  . 

I  had  not  thought,  when  I  began  to  write  to 
you  to-day,  what  a  fitting  close  this  letter  is  to 
these  letters  of  a  year ;  but  it  is  so.  Strongly, 
wonderfully,  throughout  these  months  stand  out, 
shine  and  inspire,  the  ideals  of  Love,  Courage, 
Devotion  :  Patience  in  terrible  sufferings  ;  Charity 
and  Tenderness,  Self-forgetfulness :  Gifts  that 
mean  sacrifice — as  from  one  end  of  the  earth  to 
the  other  men  are  laying  down  life  for  a  holy 
Cause.  Over  these  cruel  sacrifices  rise  the  spirit 
of  ineffable  youth ;  the  glory  of  patriotism ; 
love  of  home  and  country — all  which  makes  the 
foundation  of  the  human  race  enduring.  I  close 
with  the  beautiful  words  of  Henry  Dadvisard  to 
his  squadron  as  he  bade  them  good-bye  :— 

"Above  all  the  changes  that  agitate  human- 
ity, three  things  alone  exist  and  remain  :  The 
Intelligence  which  comprehends,  the  Will  which 
believes,  and  above  everything  else,  the  Sentiment 
by  which  we  know  how  to  love." 

As  ever, 
MARIE. 


296 


COMTE    HENRY    DAOVISARD 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

THE  FAREWELL  OF  HENRY  DADVISARD  TO  HIS 
SQUADRON  OF  CUIRASSIERS,  WHICH  HE  LEFT 
TO  JOIN  THE  66TH  REGIMENT  OF  INFANTRY. 

COMRADES, 

I    have    gathered    you    together    this 
morning  to  say  good-bye  to  you. 

I  am  not  going  to  speak  to  you  of  the  Present, 
because  it  is  a  heartrending  moment  against  which 
my  heart  breaks.  .  .  . 

I  am  not  going  to  speak  to  you  of  the  Future, 
because  the  future  belongs  to  God  alone.  .  .  . 

But  I  have  the  right — indeed,  it  is  my  duty — • 
to  recall  to  you  the  Past  .  .  .  the  Past  which  we 
have  made  together  and  which  we  have  lived 
together  ! 

Officers,  non-commissioned  officers,  brigadiers 
and  troopers  of  my  beloved  Squadron  !  For  every 
man  of  you  who  has  ever  come  under  my  aegis, 
I  have  had  but  one  word,  one  single  order :  Duty. 
It  is  in  order  to  more  completely  accomplish  my 
own  duty  that  to-day  I  have  the  courage  to  part 
from  you. 

And  you,  all  of  you,  with  a  unanimous  elan, 
with  a  magnificent  generosity,  and  with  the  spirit 
of  your  adorable  youth — you  have  responded 
to  my  call  and  you  have  placed  your  heart  in 
my  hands.  .  .  .  And  it  is  for  this  that  I  want 
297 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

to  thank  you.  This  moment  contains  a  happiness 
that  no  other  human  love  could  ever  equal.  .  .  . 
Now  go  back  to  your  duty,  without  discourage- 
ment, without  sadness,  recalling  to  yourselves 
unceasingly  the  one  great  thought  that  we  have 
often  followed  together :  this — To  know  that  no 
one  man  is  indispensable,  and  that  above  all  the 
changes  that  agitate  humanity,  three  things 
alone  exist  and  remain  :  the  intelligence  which 
comprehends,  the  will  which  believes,  and  above 
everything  else,  the  sentiment  by  which  we  know 
how  to  love. 


LES  ADIEUX  A  MON  ESCADRON 

MES  AMIS, 

Je  vous  ai  reunis  ce  matin  pour  vous 
faire  mes  adieux.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Alors !  Je  ne  vous  parlerai  pas  du 
present,  car  c'est  la  minute  dechirante  ou  mon 
cceur  se  brise  ;  je  ne  vous  parlerai  pas  de  1'avenir, 
car  1'avenir  est  a  Dieu  seul ;  mais  j'ai  le  droit, 
j'ai  Je  devoir  de  rappeler  devant  vous  le  Passe 
que  vous  avez  fait  et  que  nous  avons  vecu 
ensemble  .  .  .  ! 

Officiers,  sous-officiers,  Brigadiers  et  cavaliers 
de  mon   Escadron  bien   aime,   chaque  fois   que 
1'un  de  vous  est  venu  se  ranger  sous  mon  egide, 
208 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

je  ne  lui  ai  jamais  propose"  qu'un  but,  celui  du 
devoir  accompli.  Aujourd'hui,  c'est  pour  essayer 
de  m'en  rapprocher  davantage  que  j'ai  la  force 
de  me  separer  de  vous  !  Et  vous  tous  d'un 
unanime  elan,  par  un  don  magnifique  de  votre 
adorable  jeunesse,  vous  avez  repondu  a  mon 
appel  en  pla$ant  a  nu  votre  cceur  dans  ma  main  ! 

.  .  .  Ah  !  voila  ce  dont  je  veux  vous  remercier 
— voila  le  bonheur  qu'aucun  autre  amour  humain 
n'e"galera  jamais  ! 

Eh  bien,  maintenant,  retournez  a  votre 
devour  sans  d6couragement,  sans  tristesse,  vous 
rappelant  cette  autre  grande  pensee  que  nous 
avons  souvent  aussi  evoquee  ensemble  :  a  savoir 
que  rhomme  indispensable  n'existe  pas  et  qu'au- 
dessus  des  changements  qui  agitent  Thumanite, 
trois  seules  choses  demeurent : 

L' Intelligence  qui  comprend,  la  volonte  qui 
croit  et  par-dessus  tout,  le  sentiment  pour  lequel 
nous  aimons  ! 

St.  Amant,  26.2.15. 


299 


SUPPLEMENTARY    LETTERS 


Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

SALSOMAGGIORE,  Sept.  i2th,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  BELLE, 

How  you  would  revel  in  the  beauty  with 
which  I  am  surrounded  !  How  you  would  love 
this  country,  \vhat  delight  you  would  take  in  all 
I  am  seeing  !  You  know  I've  wanted  to  make 
an  Italian  excursion  and  now,  when  Paris  and  all 
it  represented  of  responsibility  and  fatigue  and 
sadness,  was  growing  a  burden,  Italy  drew  me 
irresistibly  here. 

For  years  I  have  wanted  to  come  to  Salso- 
maggiore.  With  my  perfect  idea  of  geography,  I 
thought  it  was  on  the  Lake  Maggiore.  Nowhere 
near  it,  as  far  as  I  can  tell,  although  I  don't  know 
much  more  about  its  geography  now  than  I  did 
when  I  came ;  but  I  know  that  we  are  on  the 
edge  of  the  "  War  Zone."  Here  they  don't  make 
so  much  fuss  about  it  as  they  do  in  France,  and 
to-day  we  drove  into  it  bravely,  and  were  not 
once  stopped  for  a  passport.  I  can't  bear  to  use 
the  words  "  war  zone."  I  am  tired,  heart  and 
soul,  of  the  word  "  war  "  !  I  could  shut  my 
eyes  on  the  loveliness  of  these  towns  when  I 
realise  that  bombs  from  enemy  aircraft  were 

303 


dropped    upon    Brescia — so   near    us — and    that 
1 60  people  were  killed.  .  .  . 

The  cure  here  is  wonderful — iodine  and  soda 
baths,  in  water  brown  and  salt}'.  When  it  gets 
in  your  mouth  you  can't  bear  it ;  but  you  grow 
to  love  its  soft,  strengthening  effect  upon  your 
body.  I  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning  and 
walk  on  these  wonderful  hillsides,  where  the  figs 
are  growing  ripe,  where  the  grapes  are  growing 
ripe  ;  and  when  once  up  on  a  dewy,  ravishing 
little  plateau,  down  in  the  valley  I  hear  that  rich, 
melancholy,  swinging  note  of  the  bell  of  San 
Bartolommeo,  the  little  chapel  of  the  town.  But 
there  is  nothing  sad  about  the  bell.  Alone  as 
I  am  here,  pregnant  as  the  moment  and  time  is 
with  sadness,  for  some  reason  or  other  there  is 
nothing  melancholy  or  sad  about  any  of  it.  It  is 
beautiful  and  restful  and  full  of  charm. 

When  I  come  down,  refreshed  and  hot  and 
healthily  tired,  I  take  one  of  these  reddish  baths, 
stew  away  for  twenty  minutes,  and  then  comes 
the  most  divine  and  remarkable  cure  of  all — two 
hours  and  a  half  wrapped  in  a  bath  robe,  lying 
on  a  balcony  in  the  broiling,  delicious  sun.  I  have 
done  this  for  ten  days,  and  I  never,  never,  never 
shall  forget  the  delight  of  those  hours  on  the 
balcony  of  this  hotel.  I  don't  move — neither 
restless  nor  nervous — I  look  away  beyond  these 
soft,  sweet  hills,  into  a  divine  sky,  and  over  the 
tops  of  those  little  gentle  mountains,  soothing, 
happy,  promising  and  lovely  thoughts  come. 

I  feel  so  intensely  grateful  for  the  love  that 
has  been  in  my  life,  for  the  affection  and  kindness 

304 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

that  have  been  showered  upon  me,  for  my 
splendid  health  and  for  my  work. 

The  restaurant  amuses  me  enormously, 
because  it  is  full  of  picturesque  Romans  and 
Florentines  and  Neapolitans — the  noblesses  of 
all  the  counties  is  well  represented.  The  place 
is  smart,  and  even  now  quietly  gay.  There 
are  soldiers  en  convalescence,  there  are  political 
men  from  Rome  ;  and  I  like  to  watch  it  all.  .  .  . 
Then  follow  a  little  more  treatment — a  "  pulverisa- 
tion "  or  "  inhalation  " — and  sometimes  work 
from  five  to  seven,  sometimes  work  in  the  evening  ; 
and  now  and  again  an  opera  at  the  theatre,  which 
lots  of  times  is  not  half  bad. 

Caruso  comes  here  every  year  for  the  cure, 
as  do  many  of  the  famous  singers ;  and  the 
Queen  Mother,  who  is  very  popular  and  beloved, 
is  also  an  annual  visitor  to  Salsomaggiore. 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  little  street  at  night, 
with  its  pink,  green  and  yellow  houses,  the  blue 
sky  above  it,  the  incandescent  lamps  swinging 
in  it,  the  brown  awnings,  and,  as  we  wander  home 
from  the  cinema,  a  little  cafe  filled  with  simple, 
cheerful  people,  congregated  to  laugh  and  enjoy — 
what  do  you  think  ? — a  Punch  and  Judy  show  ! 
Just  think  of  it — right  there  in  the  street  at 
night  !  Oh,  it's  too  amusing  and  attractive  for 
anything  ! 

America  seems  far  away.  As  I  never  get  any 
letters  from  any  one,  nothing  brings  it  near.  I 
can't  help  but  feel,  in  contrasting  the  lives,  that 
over  there  we  are  always  scrapping  around  and 
going  like  mad  to  get  money  with  which  to  do 

305  u 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

something  else  that  nobody  really  wants  to  do 
very  much.  And  over  here  one  lives,  one  really 
lives.  You  just  stretch  out  your  arms  in  this 
sunlight  and  expand  and  breathe  ;  your  tense 
nerves  relax ;  you're  ready  to  settle  down  here 
with  a  simple  companion  and  watch  life  around 
you — take  what  part  you  can  and  enjoy  it. 
That's  the  way  I  feel.  Perhaps  it's  because  I 
weigh  145  Ibs. ;  perhaps  it's  because  I've  got 
my  certificate  of  baptism  here,  and  I  know  just 
how  old  I  am.  I  am  going  to  sleep  with  that 
under  my  pillow,  for  fear  somebodyll  read  it ! 
Mother  sent  to  the  place  where  she  was  born  and 
got  her  certificate  of  baptism,  and  found  she  was 
four  years  younger  than  she  thought.  Since 
then  there's  been  no  living  with  her  !  She  has  the 
airs  of  a  debutante.  But  my  certificate  worked 
the  wrong  way. 

Cremona  is  in  the  war  zone — I  have  to  write 
the  word  again,  though  I  don't  want  to.  If  I 
told  you  that  I  wished  the  sun  would  never  shine 
on  Germany  again,  that  the  moon  would  never 
lighten  its  harvest  fields  again,  how  fiendish  you 
would  think  me — how  you  would  criticise  my 
breaking  of  neutrality  !  Ah,  when  I  think  of  the 
riches  they  have  destroyed,  when  I  think  of  the 
beauties  that  France  can  never  call  back  again, 
when  I  think  of  their  accumulated  horrors, 
human,  material — I  am  no  longer  human  my- 
self. And  here,  in  this  glowing  country, 
with  its  jewels  all  around  me,  I  feel  like  pro- 
tecting them  with  my  arms  and  my  soul,  and  I 
wish  I  had  fifty  lives  and  could  give  them  all 
306 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

to  these  lands  that  I  love.  That's  the  way  I  feel. 
...  I  have  no  spirit  of  criticism  in  regard  to  the 
policy  of  my  own  country.  My  country — right 
if  it's  right,  wrong  if  it's  wrong — is  my  country 
still. 

How  far  I  get  from  Cremona  !  I  wanted  to  go 
there  because — do  you  remember  ? — there,  in 
your  little  parlour  one  night,  inspired  and  fired 
by  some  talk  we  had  had  together,  I  planned  out  a 
little  drama  on  the  idea  of  a  Stradivarius  violin 
made  in  Cremona.  I  drove  there  to-day  and 
found  it  glowing  under  a  September  sun.  The 
Duomo  has  a  Venetian  tower — high,  high  up 
into  the  blue — a  great  big  light  blue  clock  on 
it ;  little  arches  with  snowy  marble  figures 
running  along  to  the  right — I  can't  describe 
architecture :  it's  beyond  me.  It  was  like  a 
pomegranate,  like  an  orange,  like  some  wonder- 
ful fruit.  Then  the  basilica,  romanesque  and 
barroque,  was  enormous  and  brilliant  beyond 
words.  Oh,  what  would  I  not  give  to  have  had 
you  see  with  me  that  scene  to-day  !  On  the  left 
as  we  entered  was  a  tiny  little  chapel  to  the 
Madonna,  all  red — brilliant — a  crimson  lamp 
burning  before  the  Heart  of  Mary.  Pillars, 
arches,  roof,  aisles,  everywhere,  painted,  decorated, 
golden,  crimson — the  most  jewel-like  and  brilliant 
decoration  that  you  can  fancy.  But  the  great 
sight  was  the  High  Altar,  lighted  with  candles 
for  the  "  Salut."  Three  priests  in  red  and  white 
robes  were  officiating,  and  with  the  delicate, 
flickering  candlelight  blended  the  azure  smoke 
from  the  swinging  censers.  All  the  church  was 

307 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

full  of  the  people  of  Cremona — kneeling  on  that 
stone  pavement  in  such  attitudes  of  faithful 
piety,  in  such  attitudes  of  appeal.  Old  men 
praying  for  their  sons  hi  the  fighting-line — those 
Alpini ;  little  old  women  with  handkerchiefs  on 
their  heads  ;  children  young  and  old.  I  have 
never  seen  such  devotion,  such  touching,  touching 
attitudes  of  prayer.  We  stood  and  watched 
these  lights  and  the  wonderful  spectacle  of  the 
altar.  After  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  when  the 
service  was  finished,  every  light  was  extinguished, 
as  if  by  magic,  and  at  the  same  time  great  curtains 
of  tapestry  were  pulled  aside,  and  through  the 
stained  glass  windows,  all  over  the  altar,  poured 
a  flood  of  glorious  sunlight.  I  have  never  seen 
anything  like  it — never. 

I  have  become  acquainted  with  a  very  agree- 
able woman — the  Marchesa  di  Bourbon-Rangoni. 
She  is  here  with  her  little  boy.  She  looks  like  an 
American,  and  has  a  gentle  voice,  and  is  alto- 
gether simpatica.  She  is  separated  from  her 
husband, — and  lives  with  her  two  children  on  the 
Di  Faustina  property.  (Her  sister-in-law  is  the 
Principessa  di  Faustina.)  I  discovered  that  we 
had  many  mutual  friends,  and,  curiously  enough, 
a  great  friend  of  hers,  the  Countess  d'Orsay,  came 
to-day,  and  it  turned  out  that  she  is  a  chum  of 
Marie  Edgar's. 

Yesterday  I  went  over  to  a  castello,  the 
palace  of  the  Soragna  family,  dating  from  the 
year  1000.  I  won't  describe  the  rooms  there, 
with  their  gold  and  crimson  walls  ;  but  right  in 
the  heart  of  the  castle  we  found  a  wonderful 

308 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

little  chapel,  and  high  up  in  the  red-hung  gallery, 
built  in  for  the  noble  family,  the  woman  with  me 
knelt  down  and  prayed.  I  could  not  but  wonder 
whether  she  was  praying  for  her  son  in  the  fighting- 
line,  or  for  her  daughter,  whom  she  is  going  to  bring 
out  shortly  into  Roman  society,  or  for  her  own 
lover  fighting  in  the  Trentino.  What  a  complex, 
wonderful  mixture  life  is,  isn't  it  ?  Half  the 
world  praying  for  what  the  other  half  has  got 
and  vice  versa.  Lonely  women  who  have  had 
husbands  and  lost  them ;  lonely  women  who 
wish  they  could  lose  their  husbands ;  lonely 
women  who  have  no  husbands  and  want  them  ; 
lonely  women  who  have  no  husbands  and  don't 
want  them — and  what  in  heaven's  name  is  coming 
their  way  ? 

Did  I  tell  you  what  a  rich  German  said  to 
Gaetano  one  night  he  dined  with  him  in  Phila- 
delphia ?  After  showing  Gaetano  the  pictures 
by  Old  Masters  in  his  library,  and  when  Gaetano 
had  properly  admired  them  all,  the  gentleman 
said,  with  a  melancholy  expression  :  "  Oh,  it's 
all  very  well ;  but,  you  see,  they  don't  pay  any 
dividends."  That's  one  way  of  looking  at  a 
picture  gallery  !  You  can  imagine  how  it  struck 
an  Italian  to  whom  beautiful  pictures  have 
always  meant  more  than  dividends — I  suppose 
you  will  say  "  Unfortunately." 

In  one  of  your  letters  you  asked  me  what  I 
thought  of  American  diplomacy  ?  It  is  impossible 
from  this  distance  to  understand  it.  Fortunately, 
I  don't  have  to  be  responsible  for  any  people's 
diplomacy.  The  question  is  too  great  and  too 

309 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

far  away.  Over  here  we  see  the  insults  offered 
to  the  United  States  ;  we  follow  the  trickery  and 
the  lying  stupidity  of  the  Germans  with  surprise 
and  disgust ;  but  I  feel,  too,  that  their  filthy 
expectorations  don't  always  reach  as  far  as  our 
big,  distant  country.  Loathsome  beasts — pour- 
ing forth  their  slime  and  their  filth  over  the 
civilised  world  !  That's  how  I  feel  about  them. 
I  am  glad  I  am  not  in  Archibald's  boots.  I  crossed 
on  the  Rotterdam  with  him. 


HOTEL  DBS  THERMES,  SALSOMAGGIORE, 
Sept.  1 7th,  1915. 

DEAREST  MOTHER, 

I  have  been  very  much  delighted  with 
your  letters.  Hilda  let  me  read  hers.  I  do 
think  that  you  are  too  remarkable  for  words. 
Your  handwriting  is  so  clear,  and  everything  you 
say  said  better  than  any  one  I  know  says  it — 
than  they  would  say  it,  if  they  had  it  to  say  ! 
I  don't  know  any  one  with  your  mind  and  your 
spirit.  I  feel  as  though  I  never  could  thank  you 
enough  for  being  my  mother.  I  am  sure  this 
will  please  you. 

It  takes  an  awfulty  long  time  for  letters  to 
come  here,  and  of  course  it  takes  an  awfully 
long  time  for  those  letters  that  are  not  written 
to  me  to  come  !  And  the  result  is  that  I  don't 
have  any  letters  at  all — just  a  few  scraps. 

I  haven't  written  you  anything  about  this 
enchanted  place.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  feel 
what  it  has  been  for  me. 

I  don't  understand  my  own  temperament  at  all 
310 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

— I  suppose  it  is  not  necessary  that  I  should. 
If  I  could  only  go  on  as  I  start,  how  far  I  would 
get,  and  what  I  should  accomplish  ! 

There  seems  to  have  been  an  especial  blessing 
in  this  place  for  me.  I  hope  it  is  a  real  one.  I 
hope  it's  not  just  my  romantic  imagination  that 
makes  it  seem  so.  Whether  it  is  or  not,  the 
pleasure  that  I  have  had  on  this  balcony  I  can 
never,  never  lose.  I  shall  remember  always  these 
golden  hours.  To-day  I  lay  three  hours  out  here 
in  the  sunlight — scarcely  dreaming,  basking  like 
these  little  green  lizards  that  run  out  over  the 
stones  and  scare  me  to  death.  There  is  a  very 
magic  in  the  air,  too.  Every  country  has  its 
individual  odour  and  smell.  (Paris,  in  the  autumn, 
when  the  wood  fires  are  first  lit — heavenly  odour, 
full  of  memories  !)  Here  the  very  scent  of  the 
land  is  delectable — these  fields,  warmed  by  the 
most  ardent  suns,  give  out  the  smell  of  red  and 
white  clover,  and  of  some  Italian  flowers  whose 
names,  of  course,  I  don't  know,  being  the  least 
botanist  in  the  world ;  but  I  know  it's  not 
garlic  ! 

One  could  take  delightful  drives  if  one  could 
pay  for  them.  There  is  every  kind  of  vehicle, 
from  a  little  two-wheel  waggon  a  few  inches  high, 
drawn  by  a  microscopic  donkey,  to  motors  of 
all  kinds  and  makes.  I  believe  that  if  I  could 
settle  down  and  live  in  Italy,  I  might  become  a 
better  character.  I  really  want  to  economise 
here,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  one  might  almost 
find  a  charm  in  living  within  one's  income  ! 

The   doctor   wants   me   to   take   twenty-five 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

baths,  which  would  mean  that  I  would  not  leave 
here  before  the  first  of  October  ;  then  spend  a 
week  in  Florence,  and  the  rest  of  the  month  near 
Rome — perhaps  in  Perugia — and  really  finish 
"  Carmichel's  Past."  This  I  plan  to  do.  I  am 
going  to  stay  in  the  little  pension  you  and  Violet 
and  I  stayed  in  together  as  cheaply  as  I  can  ; 
and  I  am  going  on  cheaply  until  I've  finished  this 
novel. 

You  say  that  I  should  be  grateful  because  I 
can  have  this  wonderful  cure  and  rest.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  I  am  so  grateful  for  all  I  have  that 
the  good  things  come  to  me.  Certainly  my  heart 
is  just  overflowing  with  thanksgiving  for  the 
moral  and  spiritual  uplift  that  this  rich  experience 
has  been. 

You  remember  the  desk  that  you  have  there 
in  your  parlour  ?  That  desk  stood  in  my  little 
apartment  in  Twenty-Seventh  Street,  as  you 
know,  the  winter  dear  John  was  with  me.  I 
wrote  everything  that  I  had  to  write  that  winter 
at  that  desk  ;  and  sometimes  John  wrote  there 
too.  I  can  see  him  sitting  writing  at  it  now.  It 
was  February — the  month  he  died.  I  had 
planned  to  have  a  little  party  on  the  2/th  of  that 
month,  in  that  tiny  little  sitting-room,  and 
ask  a  few  of  my  friends  to  come  and  hear  me 
read  aloud  my  first  short  story — something  he 
liked  very  much  indeed.  It  was  called  "  The 
Path  of  the  Storm " — do  you  remember  ?— 
and  came  out  in  Harper's  after  John  died.  I 
remember  looking  up  at  the  calendar  that  hung 
over  that  desk  and  finding  February  27th,  and 
312 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

marking  a  black  cross  on  it — the  day  of  my  party 
to  be.  The  27th  came,  and  it  was  the  day  John 
died.  .  .  . 

I  speak  of  this,  for  all  its  sadness,  to  follow  on 
to  something  else.  Sitting  at  that  desk,  John 
wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  in  his  strong  hand,  with 
a  bit  of  pencil,  something  that — for  some  reason 
or  other — had  crossed  his  mind  :  just  a  line  : — 

"Oh,  come  away  to  the  greenwood  tree  !  " 

I  don't  know  whether  it's  a  line  of  a  poem  or 
something  he  meant  to  elaborate ;  but  when 
I  opened  that  desk  after  he  had  gone,  I  found  that 
little  errant  slip  of  paper.  It  was  dear  to  me. 
I  picked  it  up  and  fastened  it  just  across  the  top 
of  the  inner  part  of  the  desk,  where  I  kept  my 
papers.  For  fourteen  years  it  was  always  before  my 
eyes.  I  never  read  it  but  it  seemed  to  speak  to 
me  with  a  peculiar  message.  Down  in  Rome, 
four  years  ago,  when  I  was  recovering  from 
pneumonia,  it  seemed  to  call  me  then.  I  thought 
of  it  constantly.  But  for  some  reason  or  other, 
although  the  call  was  decided  and  clear  to  me, 
I  have  never  answered  it. 

I  recur  to  all  this  to  say  that  here,  in  these 
September  days,  seventeen  years  after  he  wrote 
that  little  fugitive  line,  I  feel  that  I  have  responded 
to  his  call.  You  know  that  I  have  never  been 
fond  of  the  country.  Thoroughly  urban  and 
intensely  alive,  meditative  life  and  isolation  has 
always  driven  me  to  melancholy  and  discontent. 
But  here — now  for  some  reason  I  can't  tell  why — 
the  outdoors  has  spoken  to  me  for  the  first  time 

313 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

without  sadness.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
over  these  small  and  gentle  hills,  I  have  seen  the 
sun  set  without  that  sharp  pain  at  the  heart  that 
beauty  gives  to  those  whose  lives  are  solitary 
and  who  have  suffered  a  great  deal.  For  the 
first  time,  I  have  seen  the  moon  rise,  and  loved 
it  calmly  for  its  pure  beauty,  without  longing 
and  without  regret. 

So,  dearest  Mother,  when  in  your  letter  to-day 
you  said  to  me  so  charmingly  :  "  Let  companion- 
ship be  found  by  you  in  contemplating  the  works 
of  God  in  the  beautiful  country  where  you  have 
wandered  now,"  I  think  I  may  truly  say  to  you 
that  I  have  found  such  companionship. 

Not  long  before  I  sent  that  desk  over  to  you, 
that  beloved  little  scrap  of  paper  had  fluttered 
away.  I  don't  know  where  it  went.  It  was 
material,  but  its  spiritual  message  has  been 
fulfilled.  .  .  . 

With  best  love, 

Ever, 

M. 

SALSOMAGGIORE,  September  ijth,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  CARLOTTA, 

You  know  how  often  I  have  called  you 
by  an  Italian  name.  I  have  thought  of  you  so 
much  since  I  have  come  to  Salso,  and  wished  a 
dozen  times  that  you  might  have  been  with  me 
here.  I  should  love  to  see  your  graceful  silhouette 
passing  through  these  rooms.  This  happens  to  be 
one  of  the  places  that  I  think  you  would  enjoy 
immensely,  from  all  points  of  view.  Restful 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  charming  ;  gay,  and  yet  not  too  blatantly  so 
in  this  sad  time. 

The  Sicilian  soldiers  are  allowed  to  take  their 
long  knives  into  battle  with  them,  and  they 
throw  away  their  muskets  to  use  their  knives, 
as  the  Indians  do  ;  and  they  say  that  the  bravery 
of  those  little  Sicilians  has  been  superb.  When  the 
Austrians  see  them,  they  throw  up  their  hands 
immediately,  and  ask  to  be  made  prisoners  ;  and 
the  Sicilians  give  them  to  understand  that  they're 
not  taking  any  prisoners  to-day,  and  they  must 
fight  or  be  cut  up.  But  the  Austrians  take 
prisoners,  when  they  can  get  them,  and  their 
brutality  is  pretty  well  shown  in  the  following 
incident.  They  took  pains  to  find  out  which 
prisoners  were  from  Calabria,  and  then  told  the 
poor  chaps  that  all  their  homes  had  been  destroyed 
by  earthquake ;  and  the  poor  prisoners  cried 
like  children.  There  seems  to  be  no  refinement 
of  cruelty  that  the  Austrians  and  Germans  have 
not  employed,  even  to  trafficking  with  the  senti- 
ments of  the  prisoners  who  fall  into  their  hands. 

Much  of  the  cream  of  Roman  society  is  here  at 
present — everybody  very  simply  dressed  and 
quiet,  of  course.  It's  a  most  interesting  study 
for  me — so  different  from  anything  I  have  ever 
seen  ;  and  you  can't  think  how  sweet  and  cordial 
they  are  to  me — those  of  them  whom  I've  met. 

I  am  going  down  from  here  to  Florence  for  ten 
days,  to  stay  in  a  little  pension  where  Violet  and 
Mother  and  I  stayed  years  ago ;  and  from  there 
to  Rome  for  a  few  days,  and  then  for  three  weeks 
to  Perugia. 

315 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  heard  a  charming  thing  the  other  day  about 
some  English  soldiers.  It  seems  that  where  they 
are  fighting,  up  in  Flanders,  under  a  little  hill 
some  thirty  or  forty  of  the  boys  had  been  buried 
in  a  little  cemetery  just  out  of  the  German  fire. 
It  was  safe,  but  it  was  dreary  and  lonely — a  bare 
cluster  of  graves.  There  happened  to  be,  not 
very  far  from  the  lines,  a  pond  overgrown  with 
water-lilies.  One  early  morning,  in  the  dawn, 
when  they  thought  it  safe  enough  to  risk,  several 
of  the  Tommies  swam  out  into  the  pond  and 
gathered  garlands  of  the  lilies,  and  carried  them 
over  to  the  graves.  The  soldier  who  wrote  it 
from  the  trenches  to  me  said  :  "  And  if  you'd 
known  the  men  who  did  it,  you  wouldn't  have 
supposed  that  one  of  them  was  soft-hearted  enough 
to  risk  his  life  to  put  a  lily  on  a  grave." 

If  you  write  me  before  the  I5th  October, 
address  Sebasti  &  Reale,  Rome.  Otherwise, 
4,  Place  du  Palais  Bourbon,  Paris. 

With  love  to  all, 

Ever  devotedly, 
M. 

To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

SALSOMAGGIORE,  Sept.  20,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  VIOLET, 

Yesterday  I  went  for  a  motor  drive 
with  the  Marchesa  di  Rangoni  to  a  fifteenth 
century  castle  a  few  miles  from  Cremona.  The 
Marchese  G.  S.  at  twenty-two  has  come  into 
possession  of  this  old  fief — in  his  family  for 
500  years.  He  is  a  fine  boy,  and  lives  there, 
316 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

the  tiny  little  village  coming  in,  almost,  at  the 
window  of  his  study,  as  he  looks  at  the  town  across 
the  moat.  There  he  sees  the  ducks  and  the  geese, 
and  the  little  bent  old  women,  and  those  who  are 
left  of  the  men,  the  miniature  donkey  carts,  the 
charming  children,  the  clean  roofs,  the  pink  and 
violet  and  yellow  houses ;  and  from  son  to  father, 
and  on  back,  back,  all  the  eyes  of  the  villagers 
have  been  turned  toward  the  castetto,  where 
his  people  have  been  nobles  so  long.  His  mother 
died  in  May,  leaving  him  this  possession.  There 
are  miles  of  lovely  park,  through  which  we 
wandered  at  sunset,  the  rosy  light  filling  the 
bosks  and  shining  on  the  turrets.  Bebetta 
Rangoni  and  I  went  with  a  young  Venetian  officer, 
there  on  leave  for  a  few  days. 

"  The  war,"  he  said,  "  which  is  taking  so  much 
from  every  one,  seems  to  have  given  to  us  Vene- 
tians Venice  again  for  our  own.  No  one  is  there 
but  the  people  themselves  and  we,  who  are  really 
fighting  for  our  hearthstones.  At  night  there 
are  no  lights — none — but  a  few  little  shaded 
lamps,  like  in  the  fifteenth  century.  But  not 
even  the  hand  of  God  has  put  out  the  moon  and 
the  stars,  and  Venice  is  there  under  their  light. 
Oh,"  he  said,  "  we  who  are  born  in  Venice  are 
born,  I  believe,  with  an  extra  beauty-loving 
sense — we  love  it  so  !  And  just  now  its  treasures 
seem  so  rich  and  so  precious." 

He  turned  to  me  and  said  :  "  You  must  come, 
Signora,  and  see  Venice  now — the  real  Venice — 
and  watch  with  us  for  the  Austrian  aeroplanes — 
if  they  still  dare  to  come  1  " 

317 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Afterwards  we  had  tea  in  the  tiny  room  that 
the  chatelain  occupies,  because,  of  course,  the 
saloons  and  libraries  are  never  lived  in.  Then  we 
drove  home,  many,  many  miles,  the  moonlight's 
soft,  warm  radiance  falling  over  these  lovely  fields. 

This  week  I  am  going  to  Bologna,  and  I  will 
write  you  of  what  I  find  interesting  there.  Then 
to  Florence  for  ten  days,  to  stay,  my  dear,  in  the 
Villino  Solferino — to  stay  in  the  same  old  rooms  ! 
Think  of  the  memories  I  shall  find  there  !  I  hope 
to  carry  "  Carmichel's  Past  "  on  far  towards  its 
finish  in  the  same  room  where  I  wrote  many 
chapters  of  "  The  Girl  from  his  Town "  and 
"  The  Successful  Wife  "  ;  and  where  you  and  I, 
at  midnight,  chased  that  cunning,  distracting  little 
mouse  !  How  far,  far  away  it  all  seems  !  If 
any  one  had  told  you  then  that  you  would  marry 
a  distinguished  man  and  have  such  a  varied  and 
interesting  life,  how  hard  you  would  have  found 
it  to  believe  !  We  were  both  so  poor,  and  I  was 
so  anxious  and  so  troubled  about  our  future  that 
I  could  hardly  work.  I  can  remember  now 
waking  in  the  night  and  feeling  the  weight  of  the 
burden  upon  me  of  years  to  come  in  which  I 
might  be  too  tired  to  work,  and  still  the  demands  of 
life  would  have  to  be  met.  Fortune  and  fate, 
my  dear,  were  kinder  than  we  knew.  Isn't  that 
so  ?  Everybody  will  ask  for  you  when  I  go  back 
there,  and  it  is  lovely  to  think  that  I  have  only 
good  news  to  tell. 

I'll  close  now,  for  the  present,  with  much  love. 

As  ever, 

M. 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

HOTEL  DBS  THERMES,  SALSOMAGGIORE, 

September  25th,  1915. 

DEAREST  FRIEND, 

I  do  not  want  to  leave  this  lovely  place, 
where  for  three  weeks  I  have  had  such  benefit, 
without  sending  you  a  few  loving  words. 

I  think  so  much  of  last  year,  of  what  these  days 
were  to  you,  how  you  lived  them  through  with 
patient  grace  and  wonderful  fortitude,  as  your 
mind  and  heart  followed  your  boy  in  Flanders. 
It  is  very  impressive  in  the  Bible  where  it  says  : 
'  The  thing  that  I  feared  has  come  upon  me," 
and  I  remember  a  friend  of  mine  in  America,  who 
in  one  year  lost  her  husband  and  her  son,  saying 
to  me  with  wonderful  composure,  but  great 
tenderness :  "I  have  nothing  to  fear  now  any 
more.  When  it  rains,  when  it  is  cold,  when  there 
is  danger  on  land  or  sea,  my  heart  never  will 
tremble  again,  because  there  is  no  one  whose  going 
out  into  the  storm  can  fill  me  with  anguish  and 
unrest."  .  .  . 

I  am  going  from  here  to-day  to  Bologna, 
Ravenna,  Rimini,  and  Florence.  The  cure  has 
done  me  vast  good.  Although  I  am  not  entirely 
well,  I  feel  like  another  person,  and  I  should  like 
to  come  here  every  year.  Perhaps  next  year, 
dearest  friend,  you  will  come  with  me  ;  for  there 
is  much  about  it  that  you  would  like  and  enjoy, 
and  you  can  be  perfectly  comfortable. 

It  has  interested  me  very  much,  as  a  foreigner 

319 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

and  a  student  of  life,  to  see  what  little  there  has 
been  to  see  here  of  the  real  and  "  best  "  Roman 
society.  Some  of  the  smartest  and  most  worldly 
of  the  Roman  aristocracy  are  here  at  Salso. 
I  have  made  one  very  good  friend,  however, 
in  the  Marchesa  di  Bourbone-Rangoni,  who  has  a 
lovely  property  near  Florence,  on  which  she  lives 
alone  with  her  two  children — a  beautiful  boy 
and  a  lovely  little  girl.  She  administers  her  own 
estate  splendidly,  has  doubled  her  income  since 
she  became  a  farmer,  and  when  she  knits  woollen 
things  for  the  soldiers,  she  sits  there  knitting 
them  from  the  wool  of  her  own  sheep.  I  call  that 
very  chic  indeed  ;  don't  you  ?  (I  dare  say  she 
could  give  us,  who  need  it  so  much,  some  wool.) 
She  is  a  tall,  graceful  woman,  very  distinguished, 
with  a  great  deal  of  genre  and  attraction.  I  like 
her  immensely.  I  think  she  would  be  a  good 
friend,  and  she  certainly  is  a  most  agreeable 
one. 

One  of  the  most  popular  women  in  Rome,  and 
one  of  the  undoubted  leaders  of  society,  a  woman 
whose  word  is  quite  sufficient  to  make  you — and 
I  am  sure  she  is  too  generous  to  immake  anybody  ! 
— is  the  Marchesa  di  Rudini.  Of  course  you  know 
whom  I  mean.  She  is  tres  grande  dame,  with  a 
poise  and  charm.  My  few  short  entretiens  with 
her  have  been  delightful,  and  it  has  been  a  pleasure 
to  exchange  ideas  with  somebody. 

I  send  you  my  best  and  dearest  love,  and  will 
write  you  from  Florence  what  I  am  doing  there. 

As  ever, 

M. 
320 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


To  Madame  Hugues  Le  Roux,  Petrograd. 
RIMINI,  September  28th,  1915. 

DEAREST  BESSIE, 

We  are  in  the  Italian  War  Zone,  and 
so  far  I  have  been  able  to  circulate  freely  and 
without  the  slightest  inconvenience,  now  that  our 
passports  are  en  regie  from  Bologna.  It  is  hard 
to  believe  that  all  the  formalities  that  make  travel 
so  difficult  in  France  exist.  Only  three  things 
make  us  know  that  Italy  is  at  war :  the  grey 
clouds  of  soldiers  drifting  hither  and  thither 
through  the  tiny  streets  of  these  little  towns,  the 
fact  that  we  are  the  only  tourists  anywhere,  and 
the  mediaeval  darkness  of  the  streets  at  night. 
Think  how  charming  it  is  to  be  in  a  country  free 
of  tourists,  free  of  travellers,  and — with  the 
Italians — to  have  Italy  all  to  oneself  ! 

The  beauty  of  Bologna  at  night,  as  we  walked 
out  late  in  the  streets,  hither  and  thither,  under 
the  arcades,  was  beyond  compare.  Think  of  the 
whole  city — you  can't  say  lighted,  for  it  was  not 
lighted,  but  faintly  illumined  by  little  lights 
flickering  through  turquoise  and  peacock  blue 
shaded  glass.  Just  picture  it !  Far  down  a  dim 
arcade,  one  caught  a  little  spark  of  azure ;  then 
there  would  be  a  little  group  of  green  lights. 
Every  light  in  the  strawberry  and  peach  coloured 
city  green  or  blue  !  This  same  wonderful  phan- 
tasmagoria of  lights  is  everywhere  in  this  War 
Zone,  menaced  by  enemies  from  the  air  and  the 
sea. 

321  x 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

When  you  think  of  the  learned  and  richly 
interesting  letters  written  about  Italy,  in  Italy, 
and  from  Italy,  it  seems  futile  for  an  unimportant 
person  to  write  any  others  ;  but  I  don't  think  you 
often  find  Italy  written  of  by  a  frankly-confessed 
ignoramus — by  some  one  who  knows  nothing  at 
all  about  either  geography  or  history.  I  don't 
know  where  anything  is — neither  its  position  on 
the  map  nor  the  juxtaposition  of  towns  ;  and  I 
don't  know  who  any  one  was,  and  I  never  see 
sights  ;  and  yet,  as  I  do  see  them,  and  as  they 
unveil  themselves  to  me,  and  as  their  beauty 
reveals  itself  to  me,  how  I  love  it  ! 

In  the  train,  on  the  way  to  Ravenna,  a  most 
gracious  and  interesting  woman,  whom  I  took  to 
be  English,  spoke  to  me,  and  was  so  good  as  to 
tell  us  where  we  could  get  luncheon  and  where  we 
could  stay  in  Ravenna  and  Rimini.  Then  we 
fell  into  conversation,  and  when,  at  the  station, 
a  tiny  cart  made  of  woven  ropes  drove  up  and  took 
her  bags  and  her  husband's  valises  away,  she 
herself  ciceroned  us  to  one  of  the  churches.  There, 
in  the  sunlight,  with  her  for  guide,  we  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  Byzantine  mosaics  in  all  their 
beauty  in  the  church  of  Sant'  Appollinare  Nuova. 
Later,  she  asked  us  to  go  and  see  her  "  house  " 
before  we  left  Ravenna. 

The  Contessa  Rasponi  was  modest  when  she 
spoke  of  her  "  house."  On  foot  I  went  and  found 
it,  and  it  rose  up  out  of  the  cobblestones  of  the 
street — a  fine,  warm-hued  palace — a  big  palace, 
with  noble  windows  and  a  noble  staircase,  and 
noble  rooms.  There  is  nothing  modern  about  it 
322 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

at  all — not  even  the  furniture ;  and  Ravenna  folds 
it  around.  Through  the  open  windows  one  looks 
right  on  to  the  clustering  roofs  of  the  city.  All 
the  little  town  seems  to  come  in  at  the  windows. 

"  Here,"  said  the  Contessa,  "  I  like  to  live,  be- 
cause those  I  know  and  love  have  all  lived  to- 
gether here  for  six  hundred  years." 

(Do  you  know  anybody  you'd  like  to  live  six 
hundred  years  with  ?  It's  nice  to  find  that  some 
people  are  fond  enough  of  their  family  and  cousins 
to  want  to  go  right  on.) 

Contessa  Rasponi  is  a  perfect  dear,  and  her 
husband  most  charming.  Theirs  was  the  first 
intermarriage  between  the  old  families  Rasponi 
and  Pasolini  of  Ravenna  for  six  hundred  years  ! 

Silent  Ravenna  !  And  yet  I  heard  several 
sounds  there.  (I  will  tell  you  what  they  were.) 
But  the  town  is,  taken  altogether,  the  silentest 
inhabited  place  I  ever  knew.  The  name  is  beau- 
tiful, isn't  it  ? — Ravenna.  And  Rimini,  too. 
How  those  words  seem  to  sing  and  call  back  again 
in  their  cadences  the  figures  of  the  past  !  .  .  . 

There  are  really  no  vehicles  at  all — just  a 
primitive  cab  or  two,  easy-going  victorias  from 
the  Middle  Ages.  You  don't  call  donkeys  and 
what  they  draw  vehicles  :  they're  just  marvel- 
lously cunning,  darling  little  things  to  go  about 
with  and  in.  And  such  heavenly  little  asini ! 
And  such  old-world,  unchanged  in  character  and 
manufacture,  little  carts — just  a  few  bits  of  rope 
tied  together  and  wheels  dangling  somewhere, 
and  then  a  donkey  a  couple  of  feet  high.  These 
are  the  vehicles.  Otherwise  Ravenna  goes  about 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

— I  am  so  sorry  to  say  so — on  bicycles.  It's  incon- 
gruous, isn't  it  ?  (Do  you  remember  our  bicycle 
rides  at  Divonne  ?)  The  bell  of  the  bicycle  was 
one  of  the  sounds  I  heard  in  Silent  Ravenna. 
Priests  and  tradespeople,  factory  girls  in  black 
and  white  poker-dotted  dresses,  gaily-coloured 
handkerchiefs  tied  over  their  heads,  flit  through 
the  streets  on  the  practical  bicycle.  But  one 
doesn't  mind  them  :  they  are  quickly  gone,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  glow  of 
the  Byzantine  settles  around  Ravenna. 

Don't  worry ;  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  any 
guide  book  description  of  Ravenna !  I  only 
know  that  I  didn't  know  what  mosaics  could  be, 
or  what  the  word  meant.  You  come  across  a 
little  round  tower  like  a  cowshed  or  a  pig-stye, 
and  you  wonder  why  they  have  left  it  and  what 
the  ages  meant  by  it ;  and  you  open  the  door  and 
go  in,  and  then  you  know.  Jewels  on  jewels 
multiplied  ;  and  such  colours  !  Turquoise,  pea- 
cock, golds  and  whites  ;  swans  and  angels  and 
doves,  saints  and  patriarchs,  on  wall  and  ceiling, 
one  after  another.  These  vulgar,  homely,  ugly 
hovels  blaze  with  beauty  like  some  captured  star. 
Think  of  such  delicate,  ephemeral  beauty  per- 
sisting for  fifteen  hundred  years  ! 

Ravenna  !  The  very  name  chants  to  me  as 
I  say  it  and  think  about  it. 

And  the  little  balcony  of  Francesca's  house 
swings  up  in  the  blue  air.  I  wonder  they  did  not 
call  her  "  Francesca  da  Ravenna."  She  seems  so 
much  more  a  part  of  it.  Ravenna  is  such  a  lovely 
envelope  for  her  memory.  Dante,  exiled  here, 

324 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

drew  his  story  under  the  charm  of  her  native 
town.  I  am  sure  that  here  in  Ravenna  he  made 
his  immortal  picture  of  her.  Here  she  was  a 
little  girl — dreaming,  probably,  over  the  sea-like 
marshes  that  isolated  her  town  and  that  stretched 
between  Ravenna  and  Rimini. 

If  I  could  only  make  you  feel  the  picture  of 
it  !  But  I  can't.  I  am  surprised  that  so  little 
is  said  or  written  about  it.  It  is  a  marvel — a 
dream.  I  believe  that  I  shall  feel  the  silence  of 
Ravenna  all  my  life.  You'll  think  this  strange, 
when  I  enumerate  the  noises. 

High  up  from  an  open  window,  as  I  pass  along 
the  tiny  piazza,  I  hear  the  clicking  of  a  type- 
writer !  Way  down  one  of  the  thread-like  streets, 
close  to  the  leaning  tower,  I  saw  a  grey  group  of 
soldiers  enthralled  as  they  listened  to  a  modern 
rag-time,  ground  out  by  just  such  a  hand-organ 
as  Italy  brings  to  us  across  the  sea.  Then  there 
was  the  bicycle  bell.  And  then,  at  the  Albergo 
San  Marco,  as  modern  as  a  good  hotel-keeper  who 
has  tried  his  hand  in  Monte  Carlo,  London,  and 
Paris  can  make  it,  I  stayed  awake  until  three  in 
the  morning  with  those  of  Ravenna  who  were 
silent  by  day  and  vocal  by  night.  It  is  only  fair 
to  say,  however,  that  there  were  two  thousand 
soldiers  quartered  in  the  town,  and  the  poor  dears 
were  going  to  the  front.  About  six  next  morning, 
after  two  hours  of  sleep,  I  leaned  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  them  marching  away.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  had  your  cable  from  Yokohama — 
just  one  line  of  love.  Thank  you  for  spending 
the  money  to  send  it.  It  was  welcome  indeed. 

325 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

It  found  me  here  (in  Florence)  last  night  when 
I  arrived,  after  a  200  kilometre  motor  drive  over 
the  Apennines.  (October  ist  now.) 

My  best  love  to  Robert  and  you, 
Ever  devotedly, 
M. 

To  Miss  B.  S.  Andrews,  New  York. 

FLORENCE,  October  ist,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  BELLE, 

I  am  sorry  that  you  could  not  go  with 
Le  Rouxs  to  Russia  and  Japan,  but  in  this  case 
I  can  quite  understand  your  putting  business 
before  pleasure.  I  expect  you'll  make  a  fortune 
out  of  cotton  and  motors,  and  be  a  real  Rothschild, 
speculating  on  the  war.  (As  you  have  no  Hebrew 
blood  in  your  veins,  you  won't  be  cross  at  this.) 

Speaking  of  a  Scripps-Booth  motor,  and  speak- 
ing of  motors  in  general  (for  I  believe  you're  in- 
terested in  them),  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the 
"  Rolls-Royce  "  in  which  we  dashed  away  from 
Ravenna.  Up  at  Salso,  a  beautiful  white  car  was 
offered  me  for  frs.6oo  (the  rent  of  it,  I  mean),  to 
take  me  from  Salso  to  Florence.  Well,  of  course, 
I  didn't  take  it.  I  hugged  the  temptation, 
communed  with  it,  went  down  and  gazed  at  the 
car  .  .  .  and  came  back  and  went  by  train  ! 

But  at  Ravenna,  the  proprietor  of  the  "  Ritz- 
Carlton  "  (!)  there,  offered  me  for  the  sum  of 
frs.20  a  motor  going  back  anyway  from  Ravenna 
to  Rimini.  I  fell  to  this,  and  when  it  heaved  up 
before  the  door  the  following  morning,  it  turned 
326 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

out  to  be  a  taxicab.  In  this  object,  only  a  vehicle 
at  all  because  it  had  four  wheels,  we  rolled  out 
into  the  rain  and  away  from  Silent  Ravenna. 

In  front  of  an  old  church  some  five  or  six 
miles  out,  I  discovered  that  I  had  left  my  Briggs 
umbrella  at  the  hotel.  Just  why  I  should  have 
tried  to  retrieve  this  umbrella  more  than  the 
hundreds  I  have  lost  in  my  life,  I  don't  know ; 
but  the  "  Rolls-Royce "  went  back  whilst  we 
"  did  "  the  church.  That's  about  all  the  swift 
rolling  that  darned  car  did  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  ! 

Rimini,  as  the  crow  flies,  or  as  the  donkeys 
go,  or  as  the  bicycles  glide,  is  about  an  hour's  run 
from  Ravenna.  It's  a  mere  nothing  at  all  of  a 
trip.  How  long  do  you  think  it  took  us  in  our 
car,  in  the  rain  ?  Just  five  hours  !  I  don't  know 
what  blew  up  or  blew  out,  not  being  an  automo- 
bilist.  A  car  can  do  almost  anything  and  fool 
me  ;  but  this  one  did  nothing.  After  we'd  been 
crawling  along  for  a  few  minutes,  it  stopped.  We 
started  out  with  two  men  "  on  the  box,"  and  then 
we  lost  one  of  them,  who  went  off  somewhere  for 
something,  and  we  sat  there  and  enjoyed  Italy 
for  hours. 

...  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  little  Angelo. 
He  was  five.  He  came  and  stood  by  the  roadside, 
in  his  home-made  trousers  that  reached  below  his 
knees,  with  his  big,  beautiful  eyes  fastened  upon 
us,  and  his  whole  little  figure  the  embodiment  of 
childhood's  dream.  He  was  grace  and  charm 
personified. 

There  were  other  little  children.     One  little 

327 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

bare-foot  chap,  under  a  sea-green  cotton  umbrella, 
carried  a  bottle  of  milk  for  which  the  crying  baby 
waited  an  hour  whilst  the  little  messenger  dreamed 
with  Angelo  by  the  wayside. 

We  extracted  from  Angelo  that  he  was  going 
to  visit  his  grandmother — like  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood — and  finally,  munching  a  bit  of  chocolate 
that  we  gave  him,  he  trudged  away  in  the  rain 
toward  "  Grandmother's  "  house.  Later,  when 
the  motor  decided  to  get  a  move  on  it,  we  found 
him  again,  a  little  further  along  the  road  ;  and 
I  wish  with  all  my  heart  you  could  have  seen  that 
group.  Little  Angelo  at  home,  with  a  furry  horse- 
collar  over  his  shoulder,  carrying  it  somewhere  ; 
his  uncle  by  his  side — the  most  superb-looking 
young  man  you  ever  saw,  a  wound  in  his  neck, 
and  his  arm  just  getting  over  paralysis,  back  from 
the  front  on  sick  leave  :  and  standing  in  the  court- 
yard, her  arms  white  with  the  flour  she  had  been 
making  into  bread,  a  white  handkerchief  around 
her  lovely  head,  Angelo 's  aunt — a  beauty,  a  raving 
beauty  !  And  then  all  the  picturesqueness  of 
that  country  yard  ;  the  yellow  corn  spread  upon 
the  ground,  the  golden  pumpkins  on  the  roof  ; 
and  coming  down  the  road  towards  the  farm,  a 
brilliantly  painted  cart — a  cart  painted  with 
bright  flowers,  crimson  and  blue — drawn  by 
snow-white  oxen  with  horns  over  a  yard  long  each. 
You  never  in  your  life  saw  anything  so  picturesque 
and  so  enchanting. 

Then  we  left  them.  Good-bye,  little  Angelo, 
for  ever  !  .  .  . 

It  wasn't  long  to  me,  any  of  that  five  hours  ; 
328 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

for,  one  after  another,  such  lovely,  lovely  sights 
on  every  side  to  see,  and  through  all  the  air  such 
heavenly  smells  of  broom  and  thyme  and  walnut ; 
and  high  upon  the  umber  hills,  strongholds  of 
robber  barons  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  it  was 
enchanting  to  imagine  that  in  this  landscape 
Francesca  of  Ravenna  dreamed  as  she  went  with 
Paolo  to  Rimini. 

Whatever  charm  Rimini  may  have  had, 
Francesca  must  have  given  to  it,  those  centuries 
ago.  There  is  little  left  of  old  Rimini  now — a 
fragment  of  a  city  wall,  its  brown  ruin  facing  the 
sea  ;  a  fragment  of  a  gloomy,  forbidding  castle,  to 
whose  tragic  walls  Paolo  brought  her.  There's 
little  left  of  Rimini ;  and  yet,  even  now,  the  thrill 
and  the  passion  seems  to  linger  still.  The  morbid 
marvel  of  her  love  story  makes  the  very  air  quiver, 
makes  the  place  aflame  still.  I  shall  never  for- 
get with  what  intense  feeling  I  read  Dante,  three 
years  ago,  with  Casabianca  in  my  little  study. 
I  remembered  it  here  at  Rimini  so  clearly. 

No  one  knows  where  Francesca's  tomb  is,  or 
where  her  body  lies.  It  is  as  though  her  sepulchre 
were  in  the  wonderful  verses  that  she  inspired, 
in  the  hearts  of  all  lovers.  .  .  . 

The  following  morning,  I  fell  to  another 
motor  temptation  and  came  150  miles  from 
Rimini  to  Florence  over  the  Apennines,  over  the 
very  crests  of  the  hills,  past  Vallombrosa,  where 
the  wind  of  late  September  blew  away  leaves  like 
the  ghosts  of  dreams  ;  down  here  to  Florence,  to 
the  very  place  where,  five  years  ago,  I  came  with 
Violet  and  Mother.  .  .  . 

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WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

I  shall  forget  many  things  that  I  have  seen,  but 
I  shall  never  forget  the  message  of  Silent  Ravenna, 
or  the  emotion  of  Rimini,  where  the  elusive 
memory  of  Francesca  seemed  to  palpitate  before 
me  like  a  flame.  I  could  seem  to  see  her  steal 
out  of  that  old  gate  and  slip  down  to  the  sea  and 
meet  her  lover  there — the  boy  forbidden  to  her 
by  law  and  whom  her  heart  and  senses  so  adored. 
Poor  little  mediaeval  children,  so  like  the  lovers  of 
to-day,  so  unchanged  is  love  !  Drifting  shadows 
in  Purgatory,  blown  thither  by  the  wind  of 
passion  if  you  like,  but  nevertheless  immortal  and 
eternal  through  their  love. 

As  I  stood  there  in  Rimini,  that  last  night 
in  the  War  Zone,  the  green-blue  lamps  below 
giving  their  pallid  light  and  the  heavens  strewn 
thick  with  brilliant  stars  above,  all  the  present 
faded  away,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  could  see  as 
clearly  as  though  it  were  before  me  the  red-brown 
palace  of  the  Malatesta  and  the  inner  room  with 
its  scant  and  meagre  furnishing,  and  I  could  see  the 
young  figures  bending  over  the  story  of  Launce- 
lot  and  Guinevere.  .  .  . 

When  you  receive  this  letter,  you  will  be  doing 
the  California  exposition  on  the  shores  of  the 
Western  sea,  and  all  our  Old  World  stories  will 
seem  to  you  like  the  dust  off  some  old  book 
that  you  shake  away  as  you  take  the  volume 
down. 

With   best   love, 

As    ever, 

M. 


330 


To  Miss  Mary  Lyon,  Morristown,  New  Jersey. 
FLORENCE,  October  ist,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  MARY, 

You  say  that  you  know  it's  useless  to  ask 
me  to  write  you  a  line.     Here  are  several ! 

How  long  ago  it  seems  from  to-day  way  back 
into  that  evening  when  I  disgraced  you  at  school ! 
Do  you  remember  how,  in  the  middle  of  the  piece 
I  was  playing  before  the  Faculty  and  the  assembled 
schoolmates,  I  smashed  my  hands  down  on  the 
piano  and  jumped  up  and  ran  out  of  the  room 
because  I  forgot,  and  was  embarrassed  ?  How 
ashamed  you  were  of  me,  how  distressed,  and 
what  mauvais  quarts  d'heure  I  gave  you  and  my 
teachers  at  school !  I  never  shall  forget  Miss 
Dana  telling  me,  my  last  year  in  school,  what  a 
bitter  disappointment  I  was  to  the  faculty,  and 
how  they  had  hoped  to  make  something  out  of  me 
and  had  failed.  Well,  that's  very  long  ago, 
isn't  it,  dear,  dear  old  friend  ? 

I  am  glad  you  liked  "  Big  Tremaine."  Thank 
you  so  much  for  telling  me  this.  Nothing  comes 
to  me  as  a  greater  surprise  than  to  discover  that 
any  one  reads  my  books.  I  always  know  why 
I  write  them  :  there  are  two  or  three  reasons  for 
that.  The  first  is  because  I  can't  help  it ;  the 
second  is  because  I  need  money ;  and — that's 
enough,  isn't  it  ?  But  the  reason  why  any  of 
them  should  be  read  I  have  never  yet  discovered. 
"  Big  Tremaine  "  has  gone  through  three  editions 

331 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

in  England,  and  considering  the  war,  that's  a  very 
good  record. 

Last  night,  I  staggered  into  this  little  resting- 
place  like  a  drunken  sailor  after  a  long  voyage, 
intoxicated  by  the  very  air  of  an  eight  hours' 
motor  trip  from  Rimini  to  Florence.  These 
words  perhaps  mean  nothing  to  you,  my  dear  ; 
but  you  can't  imagine  how  divinely  beautiful  the 
reality  was.  It  was  very  hard,  in  that  mid- 
country,  to  believe  that  anything  later  than  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  was  going  on 
beyond.  As  for  fighting  lines  and  modern  warfare, 
one  forgot  it  all.  When  you  see  in  front  of  a  pink 
stucco  house  a  little  old  woman  bending  over  her 
distaff  and  fingering  the  snowy  yarn ;  when  you 
see  a  farmyard,  with  the  women  spinning  the  flax  ; 
you  forget  about  the  twentieth  century  ;  and 
every  now  and  then  it  is  such  a  delicious  and 
restful  thing  to  do. 

You  say  that  you  think  of  me  as  nursing  the 
wounded  soldiers.  My  dear,  I  am  not  doing  that, 
nor  have  I  been  for  a  long  time.  I  am  taking  a 
little  excursion  into  the  peaceful  parts  of  the  war 
countries,  and  it  has  been  delightful  in  the 
extreme. 

When  I  come  to  America  next  time,  I  shall 
surely  see  you.  As  you  look  back  with  me,  my 
dear  Mary,  to  the  day  when  I  first  came  to  school, 
and  chose  you  from  all  the  teachers,  as  you  sat 
there  dignified  and  charming  in  your  black  and 
white  check  suit,  and  decided  that  you  should  be 
my  mentor  and  my  consoler — as  you  look  back 
with  me,  my  dear,  and  remember  how  I  used  to 
332 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

write  verses  in  my  arithmetic  because  I  couldn't 
do  the  problems,  and  how  I  used  to  write  stories 
on  my  music-book  because  I  couldn't  play  the 
scales  ;  when  you  remember  that  since  then  I 
have  written  twenty-five  books — all  bad,  of 
course,  but  still  it  means  a  lot  of  exercise — you 
don't  feel  I've  been  such  a  disappointment  to  your 
part  of  the  faculty,  I  know  !  And  I  am  perfectly 
sure,  dear  Mary,  that  you  were  not  at  that  faculty 
meeting  when  they  brooded  upon  the  demerits  of 
the  unsuccessful  scholar. 

I  wasn't  more  than  fifteen  that  first  night  when 
I  came  to  Morristown,  unexpectedly,  to  a  school 
too  full  to  take  in  a  rank  outsider.  Still  they 
admitted  me,  and  I  slept  in  the  trunk-room  ;  and 
you  were  kind  to  me,  I  have  never  forgotten  it. 
Miss  Dana,  the  principal,  took  me  to  her  study 
and  looked  me  over,  and  fastening  her  intelligent 
eyes  on  me,  frightened  me  to  death. 

She  often  told  me  since,  that  she  asked  me 
casually,  as  she  asked  all  the  girls,  "  Is  there  any 
special  branch  of  study  you'd  like  to  follow  ?  "  and 
that  I  answered  jauntily,  "  Literature — I  am 
going  to  be  a  novelist  " — just  as  one  might  elect 
to  be  a  baker  or  a  candlestick  maker. 

Please  write  me  and  tell  me  what  you  are 
doing,  and  believe  me,  as  ever, 

Your  affectionate  pupil, 

MARIE  VAN  VORST. 


333 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

FLORENCE,  October  4th,  1015. 

DEAREST  FRIEND, 

I  was  so  glad  to  have  good  news  from  the 
wanderers — Bessie  and  Robert.  I  understand 
they  will  not  be  back  before  Christmas.  It  seems 
horribly  long  to  wait  to  see  them.  When  they 
started,  I  feared  that  the  Germans  would  be  in 
Petrograd  before  the  Le  Roux  ;  now  I  believe 
that  they  will  never  get  there  at  all — I  mean  the 
Germans. 

Our  hearts  are  full  of  gratitude  for  the  wonder- 
ful victories  of  France  and  England,  and  I  hope 
that  this  good  news  will  meet  Robert  and  Bessie 
in  Russia.  I  have  a  little  letter  from  him,  in 
which  he  says  : 

"Thank  you  for  sending  me  the  news  that 
the  Croix  de  Guerre  has  been  placed  on  the  grave 
of  my  beloved  son.  On  his  dying  bed,  he  asked 
me  :  '  Do  you  think  they  will  know  that  I  died 
well  and  bravely  ?  Father,  do  you  think  they 
will  give  me  the  Cross  ? '  Then,  I  could  not 
answer  him.  Now  he  knows.  .  .  ." 

All  these  days  must  be  so  full  of  terrible 
souvenirs  to  Robert.  It  will  take  him  many  and 
many  a  journey,  and  many  and  many  a  new  scene, 
to  blot  out  from  before  his  eyes  the  pictures  of 
the  hospital  at  Toul. 

Ever  devotedly  yours, 

M.   V. 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 


From  an  English  soldier  in  the  trenches,  to  Ray 
Webb,  my  maid. 

EXTRACT. 

'  ...  As  I  write  in  my  little  dug-out — only 
a  hole  scooped  out  of  the  earth  like  a  rabbit  hole — 
the  enemy  is  continually  sniping  at  us.  They 
have  trained  men,  good  shots,  who  do  nothing 
else  but  wait  at  loopholes  in  their  trenches,  waiting 
for  us  to  show  our  heads  above  the  parapet  of  our 
trench.  They  sometimes  miss  us,  luckily.  .  .  . 
It  is  marvellous  how  daring  our  fellows  get. 
Although  we  are  so  near  the  Germans — only 
150  yards — there  are  some  partridges  between  us 
and  an  occasional  rabbit ;  so  during  the  day  we 
try  to  shoot  them,  and  we  crawl  out  after  dark  to 
get  them. 

"  Last  week  I  was  out  early  one  morning 
looking  for  fruit,  and  I  found  a  pear-tree.  I  was 
just  standing  up  to  get  some  when  crack  goes  a 
bullet  just  over  my  head.  I  fell  flat  and,  of 
course,  had  to  crawl  back  to  our  trenches  without 
any  pears.  I  managed  it  next  morning,  and  had 
stewed  pears  and  blackberries  for  breakfast. 
What  a  mixture,  eh  ?  In  the  trenches,  we  are 
not  allowed  to  make  fires,  because  of  the  smoke 
showing  ;  but  '  Tommy  '  must  have  his  tea,  and 
he  will  always  manage  it.  We  get  down  in  our 
little  holes  in  the  earth,  and  we  utilize  candle 
grease,  vaseline,  boot  grease,  rifle  oil ;  all  these 
things,  with  a  little  rag,  will  burn,  and  over  this 

335 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

we  cook  and  make  our  tea.  '  Necessity  is  the 
mother  of  invention  !  ' 

"  The  greatest  objection  to  the  dug-outs  is 
that  they  are  swarming  with  vermin.  Rats,  mice, 
beetles,  and  a  host  of  other  objectionable  things 
are  always  there,  and  we  cannot  get  rid  of 
them. 

"  A  most  interesting  sight  is  to  see  an  aeroplane 
being  shelled  ;  but  of  course  you  have  seen  that 
yourself.  It  must  be  exciting  for  the  aeronaut, 
but  they  fly  calmly  on  and  seem  to  take  no  notice. 
I  have  only  seen  two  brought  down,  falling  like 
birds  with  broken  wings. 

"  It  tries  our  nerve  here  sometimes,  under 
shell  fire.  Sometimes  when  one  is  walking  along 
the  trench,  a  shell  strikes  the  parapet,  almost 
burying  us ;  but  if  no  one  is  hurt  it's  usually 
treated  as  a  joke.  I  believe  I  told  you  my  chum 
and  I  were  nearly  caught  one  day  on  Hill  60,  when 
a  huge  shell  landed  a  few  feet  from  us. 

"  If  you  should  ever  see  me  on  leave,  you  must 
be  prepared  to  see  a  very  rough  specimen  of  a 
soldier.  Water  is  scarce  here,  and  it  often  means 
going  for  days  without  a  wash  or  a  shave.  I  have 
enclosed  a  wee  sketch  of  myself  as  I  appeared  last 
week,  and  honestly,  it  flatters  me  ! 

"It  is  surprising  how  cheerful  and  confident 
we  are.  Of  course  we  want  to  get  home,  we  are 
often  hungry,  we  are  dirty,  and  most  uncomfort- 
able, and  we  grumble  ;  but  we  are  going  to  win 
all  the  time. 

"  That  German  sniper  keeps  splashing  the 
dirt  over  me  as  I  write,  I  have  been  creeping 

336 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

round  this  morning  trying  to  get  a  partridge,  but 
no  luck.  I  had  decided  to  cook  it  '  en  casserole,' 
but  I  have  not  got  it  yet. 

"  I  must  tell  you  a  most  amusing  thing  that 
happened  last  week.  We  were  in  a  small  village 
and  our  fellows  are  very  French.  Two  of  them 
wanted  some  milk,  so  went  to  an  old  lady  and 
said  :  '  Dooley  '  (du  lait) — '  Compree  dooley.' 
Well,  the  old  lady  did  not  '  compree/  After  a 
lot  of  gesticulation  and  talking,  the  old  lady 
brightened  up  and  said  :  '  Ah,  oui ;  je  comprends  ! ' 
Away  she  goes  and  comes  back  beaming  and 
carrying  six  onions.  To  their  credit  be  it  said, 
they  paid  for  the  onions  and  came  away.  Another 
bought  a  "tin  of  mushrooms,  thinking  he  had 
apricots  !  It  is  amusing. 

"  If  one  of  our  fellows  gets  wounded,  he  is 
immediately  classed  as  a  '  lucky  bounder.' 
Those  who  get  home  do  certainly  seem  to  have  a 
good  time  of  it,  but  I  would  like  to  get  through 
it  all  safe. 

"  The  Germans  are  now  using  great  bombs 
which  they  try  to  drop  in  our  trenches.  The 
explosion  is  awful — fairly  shakes  the  place.  We 
call  it  the  '  sausage.'  '  Here  comes  another 
sausage  !  '  is  a  common  cry.  '  WTiiz-bangs  '  are 
another  type,  fired  from  close  range.  The 
moment  you  hear  the '  whiz,'  they  explode  '  bang  ' 
near  the  trench.  We  can  hear  shells  from  the  big 
long-range  guns  screaming  through  the  air  all 
the  time. 


337 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  Master  Bobby  Cromwell,  Bernardsville,  N.J. 
FLORENCE,  October  6th,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  BOBBY, 

How  would  you  like  to  be  a  Montenegrin, 
supposing  you  could  not  be  a  Yankee  ?  They're 
the  pluckiest  people  in  the  world.  I  wonder  if 
you  realise  that  after  Serbia  was  attacked  last 
year  by  Austria,  this  little  mountain  race  of  war- 
like shepherds,  in  the  face  of  all  Europe,  declared 
war  on  Austria,  because  their  friend  Serbia  was 
attacked  ?  There's  a  saying  that  "To  be  born 
in  Montenegro  is  to  be  born  without  fear."  Not 
bad,  that ;  eh  ? 

How  would  you  like  to  be  a  San  Marinian  ? 
(Always  supposing  you  could  not  live  in  New 
Jersey  !)  In  this  case,  we  can  avoid  any  asper- 
sions you  want  to  cast  upon  kings  and  queens,  and 
Czars  and  so  forth  ;  for  San  Marino  is  a  republic. 
High  up  on  a  mountain  in  the  province  of  Emilia, 
is  tiny,  beautiful,  ancient  San  Marino.  It's 
quaint,  and  it's  mediaeval — or  earlier  still.  (I 
won't  bore  you  by  giving  you  any  date  :  you  have 
enough  of  them  at  school,  and  nobody  likes  them.) 
It's  brown  and  it's  golden,  and  in  the  distance, 
from  its  piazza,  you  can  see  the  Adriatic  and 
Rimini. 

When  Italy  joined  in  the  war,  little  San  Marino 
— about  two  miles  long,  and  with  at  least  half  a 
dozen  people,  in  the  population — hesitated  about 
declaring  war  upon  Austria.  (Brave  as  a  lion  !) 
Oh,  San  Marino's  "  all  wool,"  if  it's  only  "  a  yard 

338 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

wide " !  Finally,  being  as  discreet  as  it  is 
valorous,  the  little  republic  decided  to  maintain 
what  she  called  a  Benevolent  Neutrality.  (Bobby, 
my  boy,  that's  what  I  hope  you're  doing  in  the 
U.S.A.) 

Well,  just  think  of  what  little  San  Marino  has 
done,  up  there  on  its  copper-coloured  hill,  with 
Italy  at  its  feet.  Whenever  an  Italian  resident 
of  San  Marino  was  called  to  serve  his  country, 
called  to  the  colours,  the  good  little  republic  paid 
his  salary  whilst  he  was  away.  They  raised 
forty  thousand  francs  for  the  national  fund  for 
the  soldiers ;  they  raised  a  lot  of  money  for  the 
Red  Cross ;  there's  a  feminine  league  and  a 
masculine  league  up  there  to  help  Italy ;  and 
when  charming  little  Rimini  was  bombarded  like 
fury  by  the  Austrian  warships — a  tower  blown  off  a 
church,  a  roof  blown  off,  a  house  blown  down  here 
and  there — benevolent  little  San  Marino  sent  down 
to  Rimini  and  fetched  up  all  the  little  orphans  from 
the  schools  and  brought  them  all  up  to  the  hills 
to  take  care  of  them. 

Bobby,  I  wish  you  could  see  those  little 
orphans  from  the  foundling  asylums  of  Rimini, 
in  snow-white  dresses,  with  white  hats  and  bare 
legs,  black  eyes  and  dark  curls.  I  tell  you  there 
are  some  little  rosebuds  and  peaches  and  fine 
little  kids  among  them — well  worth  picking  them 
up  out  of  Rimini  and  saving  them  from  the 
Austrian  bombs.  You  see,  the  Austrians  don't 
care  much  what  they  hit— not  that  they're  good 
shots,  but  they  don't  care.  They'd  just  as  soon 
smash  a  priceless  church  to  bits  as  rip  up  a  beer 

339 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

saloon.  They  don't  care !  Beer  and  stained 
glass  and  rare  old  pictures  and  sausages  and  cheese 
are  all  alike  to  the  Austrians  and  Germans.  If 
San  Marino  is  benevolently  neutral,  they  are 
malevolently  impartial. 

Well,  we've  got  something  better  to  talk  about, 
thank  Heaven  !  than  the  Austrians  and  Germans. 

WTien  Italy  declared  war,  San  Marino  quickly 
rushed  down  to  the  telegraph  office  and  hurried 
off  a  telegram  to  the  King,  saying :  "  Viva 
I'ltalia,"  "  Long  live  the  King  !  "  and  all  sorts  of 
benevolently  wwneutral  things. 

Don't  you  like  it,  Bobby  ? 

There's  nothing  the  matter  with  San  Marino, 
is  there  ? 

Well,  New  Jersey's  a  pretty  nice  place,  too. 
I  hope  it  is  benevolently  neutral.  .  .  . 

My  dear  boy,  I  send  you  many,  many  greetings 
from  the  countries  at  war.  I  wish  you  could  see 
the  splendid  Italian  soldiers.  I  wish  you  could 
see  the  splendid  English  Tommies.  I  wish  you 
could  see  the  splendid  "  poilus,"  as  they  call  the 
Frenchmen  who  have  lived  in  the  trenches  for 
over  a  year. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  Bobby,  you'll  come  over  to 
see  your  godmother,  at  the  right  time  ;  and  we'll 
stand  together  on  the  Champs  Elysees  and  see 
the  tide  of  that  victorious  army — French  and 
English — come  marching  home. 
Best  love 
from 

Your  GODMOTHER. 


340 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

To  the  Marquise  de  Sers,  Paris. 

FLORENCE,  October  8th,  1915. 

DEAREST  FRIEND, 

I  heard  of  something  last  night  so  touch- 
ing that  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it,  whilst  its  note 
is  still  ringing  in  my  mind. 

An  Italian  foundling — a  poor,  unknown  chap — 
after  a  terrible  battle  from  which  he  had  escaped 
unhurt,  wrote  home  to  Florence — sent  a  letter 
out  into  the  void,  "  to  my  unknown  parents." 
Father  and  mother  he  had  never  known.  A 
deserted  child,  brought  up  in  the  charity  schools, 
the  first  time  that  he  really  met  the  world  on  an 
equal  footing  with  others  was  when  he  went  as  a 
soldier. 

His  letter,  with  its  lonely  appeal,  spoke  to  the 
heart  of  a  high-born  Italian  woman — and  they 
tell  me  she  is  a  very  well-known  woman  indeed. 
She  wrote  him  a  letter,  which  was  published  in  the 
papers,  telling  him  that  she  knew  that  he  was  a 
good  man  because  he  did  not  revile  the  parents 
who  had  deserted  him  ;  that  he  was  no  longer  to 
consider  himself  alone  in  the  world ;  that  when 
he  came  back  from  the  front  her  home  would  be 
open  to  him,  and  that  from  henceforth  her  family 
should  be  his  family,  and  they  were  all  prepared 
to  receive  him  with  open  arms  and  try  to  make 
up  to  him  for  his  past  loneliness  and  unhappiness. 
And  all  this  expressed  in  the  most  tender,  graceful 
fashion.  .  .  . 

The  more  I  see  of  Italy,  the  more  I  adore  the 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Italians.  They  have  so  much  heart,  so  much 
cheerfulness  and  gaiety,  so  much  good  humour. 
And  the  way  they  sing  !  Every  now  and  then, 
when  a  silence  falls  in  the  streets,  it  is  broken  by 
some  sudden  singing  voice,  with  a  mellowness  and 
a  sweetness  that  makes  you  thrill. 

Among  the  people  that  Austria  has  dragged  and 
pressed  into  her  thinning  ranks  during  these  last 
dreadful  weeks  are  the  wandering  gypsy  tribes — 
men  unused  to  war,  of  course ;  unused  to  dis- 
cipline ;  free  as  the  air ;  and  to  whom  rules  are 
irksome  and  unknown.  Many  of  these  poor 
things,  who  had  never  worn  shoes  in  their  lives, 
dragged  off  their  military  boots  and  threw  them 
away  and  went  barefoot  to  the  ranks.  And  one 
Romany,  poor  thing,  longing  for  the  music  of  his 
tribe,  deserted,  and  when  he  was  finally  caught, 
confessed  that  he  had  only  gone  back  to  fetch  his 
violin.  Poor,  poor  creatures  ! 

Signer  Gozzini  is  an  antiquity  dealer.  (Ah, 
you've  caught  me,  haven't  you  ?  Of  course,  I've 
been  into  some  of  these  fascinating  shops  !) 
Signor  Gozzini  is  in  uniform — grey,  with  a  spotless 
white  collar  and  one  star  on  the  collar  of  his  tunic. 
He  is  all  alone  in  the  curiosity  shop. 

"  Scusi,  signora  !  Look  ;  enjoy  ;  see  the 
things  for  yourself.  ...  I  used  to  think  them 
beautiful.  I've  just  come  back  from  the  Alps. 
I've  been  up  there  since  the  war  began.  All  my 
other  men  have  gone.  Now  I  am  back  on  four 
days'  leave.  These  things,"  and  he  made  a 
gesture  with  his  graceful  brown  hand  to  the 
Genoese  velvet,  to  the  Venetian  chairs,  to  the 

342 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Florentine  and  Roman  treasures,  "  seem  very 
unreal  now.  I  suppose  they  have  prices :  I 
suppose  they're  part  of  what  I  used  to  call  my 
business.  .  .  .  Signora,  I've  seen  men  die  like 
flies ;  I've  seen  the  snow  of  the  Alps  stained  to 
red.  I've  heard  my  fellow  soldiers  cry  :  '  Viva 
1' Italia  ! '  and  heard  the  sound  stop  short  before 
it  finished.  .  .  .  And  I  find  myself  down  here." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"  I  hear  my  mother  and  sisters  talk  about  the 
little  scandals  of  Florence."  (He  made  another 
gesture.)  "  Signora,  don't  think  it  strange  if  I  say 
that  I've  gone  beyond.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  a  good  thing,"  he  added,  "  for  Italy. 
It's  a  good  thing  for  human  souls,  Signora. 
Perhaps  we  will  all  be  poorer  in  our  bank  accounts, 
but  every  country  that  is  fighting  to-day  has 
gone  up  higher.  ..." 

This  was  an  antiquity  dealer  in  a  Florence 

shop  ! 

With  devoted  love, 

Ever  yours, 

M. 


To  Mrs.  Victor  Morawetz,  New  York. 

PENSION  CONSTANTIN,  FLORENCE, 

October  7th,  1915. 

MY  DEAR  VIOLET, 

Here,,  in  this  agreeable  little  pension,  can 
you  imagine  how  I  think  of  you  ;  can  you  imagine 
how  easy  it  is  for  me  to  go  back  into  our  mutual 
343 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

past  here  ?  I  seem  to  see  you  everywhere — in  the 
streets,  in  this  little  study,  with  its  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  air.  Here  I  wrote  three  books  in  one 
year,  and  two  of  them  were  successful !  None  of 
them  would  have  been  accomplished  without  your 
companionship,  your  encouragement  and  your 
sweet  presence.  How  grateful  I  am  for  all  that 
unblemished  past !  As  I  look  back  upon  it,  there 
was  not  one  cloud,  from  the  time  you  came  into 
my  life  until  you  left  it.  There  have  been  many 
since — cruel  ones ;  but  that  was  all  sunlight. 

You  loved  Florence  so  much.  Yesterday  I 
thought  of  you  so  often  and  how  you  would  have 
enjoyed  the  afternoon  that  Ernestine  Ludolf 
gave  me. 

High  up  on  a  far-away  hill — on  one  of  those 
heaven-kissing  hills  that  rise  sharply  above  the 
city — is  an  old  Medici  villa,  sublime  in  its  isolation, 
almost  untouched  and  unchanged.  Egisto  Fabbri 
has  bought  it,  and  here  Ernestine  and  he  have 
spent  the  summer,  out  of  the  world. 

Ernestine  sent  her  motor  for  me  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  it  took  me  to  the  beginning  of  a 
tiny  rocky  road,  going  straight  up  into  the  sheer 
hill.  There  the  motor  stopped,  and  what  do  you 
think  waited  at  the  opening  of  the  mountain-road, 
to  carry  me  up  into  the  hills  ?  A  low  wooden 
sledge,  filled  with  hay  and  drawn  by  two  of  those 
great,  snow-white,  serene  oxen — those  beautiful 
beasts  that  we  have  so  often  admired  and  for 
which  Tuscany  is  famous.  Slowly,  this  primitive 
vehicle  slid  softly  up  (if  you  can  slide  up]  the  hill, 
through  olive  orchards  and  grape  vineyards, 

344 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

until  we  reached  the  summit ;  and  there,  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  villa  was  Ernestine,  with  her 
brother. 

From  the  terrace,  through  the  arches  of  those 
old  stone  windows,  you  look  out  over  miles  of 
blue  and  purple  Tuscany,  over  faraway  hilltops, 
over  hillsides  where  are  sparsely  scattered  other 
white  and  yellow  and  grey  castles  and  villas. 
There  is  the  veil  of  the  olives  drawn  across  the 
landscape ;  there's  the  purple  and  green  of  the 
grape  vines.  But  I'm  not  going  to  describe  it 
for  you.  It's  beyond  words  to  tell.  Miles,  miles, 
miles  out  of  the  world  it  seems  ;  and  such  remote- 
ness, such  silence,  with  its  spirit  of  contemplation 
and  its  atmosphere  of  peace,  I  have  never  dreamed 
of.  The  ilex  and  the  cypresses  rise  dark  and  black 
in  Egisto  Fabbri's  gardens. 

On  the  terrace  we  had  peasant  bread  and 
honey  and  tea ;  but  better  than  that,  we  had  a 
wonderful  talk,  for  Ernestine's  brother  has  a 
delightful  mind  and  delightful  things  to  say  ;  and 
I  am  sure  you  can  imagine  what  an  afternoon 
it  was. 

You'll  think  it's  frightfully  conceited  of  me 
to  say  that  I  think  we  are  the  only  tourists  in 
Italy.  I  assure  you  I  haven't  seen  any  others. 
Just  fancy  the  extraordinary  pleasure  of  being 
in  a  country  like  this  without  any  travellers,  or 
Baedeker-carrying  tourists  to  offend  the  eyes  ! 

There  are  two  Austrians  interned  here — an  old 

gentleman  and  lady  who  are  from  the  Trentino, 

and  are  prisoners  in  the  pension  and  its  garden. 

I  dare  say  they  wish  they  were  tourists  !    But 

345 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

even  this  little  consmopolitan  pension  is  full  of 
Italian  officers,  coming  here  to  appreciate  the  good 
food,  and  even  native  Florentines  !  The  war, 
with  its  many  changes,  has  brushed  the  tourist  fly 
brusquely  away. 

This  afternoon,  Ernestine  sent  her  motor 
again,  and  I  went  to  the  Certosa,  where  a  snow- 
white  monk  took  me  through — I  might  say — a 
deserted  monastery.  There  are  a  few  of  the 
silent  brothers  left,  but  most  of  them  have  gone  to 
the  war.  Think  of  it !  Torn  by  their  countries' 
summons  from  that  tranquillity,  from  that  isola- 
tion, from  that  peace.  .  .  .  Standing  in  the 
cloister,  the  Tuscan  hills  and  valleys  on  one  side, 
the  monastery  gardens  on  the  other,  the  snow- 
white  brother  said  to  me  :  "  Pray  for  peace.  We 
pray  for  peace." 

Each  monk  has  a  tiny  little  house.  Seen  from 
a  distance,  these  tiny  little  dwellings  form  a 
crenelated  wall  around  the  Certosa.  Each  monk 
has  his  cell,  his  study,  a  little  window  where,  on  a 
stone  seat,  he  can  sit  and  meditate,  and  a  little 
garden  to  plant  and  tend.  Here  he  eats  alone, 
the  food  being  passed  in  to  him  through  a  little 
window.  It's  the  Silent  System.  Sundays  and 
Thursdays  they  speak  together  in  the  garden  ; 
otherwise — silence . 

There  are  only  twenty  of  these  brothers  left- 
all  old,  for  those  in  whom  the  blood  is  still  young 
have  gone  to  spill  it  on  their  countries'  battlefields. 
Men  to  whom  speech  is  almost  strange,  mingling 
with  the  shouting,  screaming  hordes  on  the  field 
of  battle !  Here  Austrian,  French,  Italian, 

346 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

German,  English— these  brothers  lived  together 
in  a  community  of  Peace,  their  mission  service  and 
prayer;  and  now  they  are  fighting  in  different 
fields,  they  are  enemies,  with  Hate  for  a  common 
cause. 

How  strange ! 

"  Have  you  any  news  from  the  monks  who  have 
gone  to  the  war,  Brother  ?  " 

"  Three  of  them  have  fallen  :  one  Frenchman 
and  two  Austrians." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  war  here  ?  " 

"  We  have  a  few  lines  from  our  brothers  at  the 
front,"  he  said,  with  a  pathetic  gesture  of  those 
unworldly  hands — hands  that  for  thirty-eight 
years  have  known  none  of  the  commerce  of  the 
vulgar  world.  "  We  never  read  the  papers,  it  is 
forbidden.  .  .  .  Pray  for  peace.  We  pray  for 
peace.  ..." 

I  came  away  from  the  Certosa  with  a  feeling 
of  its  silence  in  my  soul — a  sense  of  its  sacred 
peace. 

More  and  more,  I  am  beginning  to  understand 
why  every  one  who  has  ever  accomplished  any- 
thing really  great  and  truly  beautiful  in  the  past 
has  come  to  Italy — has  lived  here  and  stayed  here 
until  some  of  its  imprint  has  enriched  their 
souls.  .  .  . 

Here  is  a  very  different  picture,  my  dear  ;  but 
you  who  love  these  touches  and  these  charming 
little  bits  of  life,  will  appreciate  it.  In  this  house 
there  is  an  awfully  pretty  girl,  who  is  studying 
music  for  the  stage.  She  is  a  true  American  and 
comes  from  somewhere  beyond  Chicago.  In 

347 


speaking  of  the  delightful  cleverness,  the  astonish- 
ing, supple,  civilised  character  of  these  people,  she 
said  : 

"  I  ride  a  great  deal  and  quite  freely  here, 
alone.  The  other  morning,  very  early — about 
seven  o'clock — on  one  of  these  lovely  warm 
mornings,  I  went  out  to  ride  in  the  Cascine.  The 
alley  in  which  I  rode  was  covered  with  falling 
leaves.  As  the  sun  has  just  risen,  bright  and 
gold,  I  seemed  to  ride  right  into  the  golden  light. 

"  A  young  Italian  city  labourer,  with  a  long, 
primitive-looking  broom,  was  sweeping  up  the 
leaves.  I  always  ride  astride,  as  the  custom  of  my 
country  is,  and  I  had  on  a  soft  cowboy  hat.  As 
I  rode  along  like  this,  the  path-sweeper  stopped  his 
work,  and  leaning  on  his  broom,  looked  me  directly 
in  the  eyes,  threw  his  head  back,  and  began  to  sing 
just  one  line — daringly,  charmingly,  in  a  full, 
fine  voice : 

'"Che  ella  mi  creda  libero  e  lontano!' 

The  first  bars  of  Johnson's  solo  in  '  The  Girl  of  the 
Golden  West '  !  " 

Just  think  of  that  quickness  and  cleverness 
on  the  part  of  a  common  street  sweeper  !     Such  a 
thing  could  not  happen  in  any  other  country  of 
the  world,  I  am  sure. 
With  best  love, 

As  ever, 
M. 


348 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 
LONDON,  November  3rd,  1915. 

DEAR  BESSIE, 

You  will  be  interested  I  know  in  a  book 
that  Mr.  Lane  is  about  to  publish.  It  is  called 
"  A  Book  of  Belgium's  Gratitude."  It  is  a 
graceful  and  touching  idea.  The  refugees  whom 
England  and  America  have  housed  and  helped 
and  saved  have  conceived  the  idea  of  publishing 
a  volume  which  shall  be  an  expression  of  their 
appreciation  to  the  Empire  and  the  United  States. 
The  Neutrality  of  Belgium,  the  British  Guarantee, 
the  Belgian  Relief  Fund,  England's  Organisation 
of  Hospitality,  and  many  other  things  relative 
to  the  conditions  are  in  the  book.  It  is  under  the 
patronage  of  the  King  of  the  Belgians,  and  among 
the  Committee  are  Emile  Cammaerts,  Emile  Claus, 
Henri  Davignon,  Jules  Destre'e,  Paul  Lambotte, 
Baron  Moncheur,  and  Chevalier  E.  Carton  de 
Wiart.  Goblet  d'Alviella,  the  Belgian  Minister, 
Count  Lalaing,  Maeterlinck,  M.  Vandervelde,  and 
Emile  Verhaeren,  too,  are  contributing  to  the 
volume.  It  interests  me  enormously,  and  I  think 
it  will  be  a  great  document.  It  will  be  printed 
in  French  and  English  and  W.  J.  Locke  has 
undertaken  to  act  as  Translation  Editor.  Miss 
Margaret  Lavington  is  acting  as  Secretary.  The 
book  is  written  and  illustrated  by  the  most 
prominent.  Belgian  Refugees  in  England  and 
America,  and  Lord  Curzon,  Lord  Cromer,  Lord 
Dillon,  Lord  Latymer,  Lady  Paget,  the  Right 
Hon.  Herbert  Samuel,  Miss  Elizabeth  Asquith, 
Mrs.  Lewis  Harcourt,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  J.  H.  Ward, 

349 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

Miss  May  Sinclair,  Horace  Annesley  Vachell,  and 
many  others  are  translating  these  tributes  to 
England.  The  more  formal  announcement  of  the 
book  is :  A  BOOK  OF  BELGIUM'S  GRATITUDE  :  In 
recognition  of  the  help  and  hospitality  given  by 
the  British  Empire,  and  of  the  relief  bestowed  by 
the  United  States  of  America  during  the  Great  War. 
I  am  very  proud  that  Eugene  d'Alviella  is 
amongst  these  authors. 

This  is  my  eighth  trip  across  the  Channel 
since  the  war  began,  and  it  has  taken  me  twenty- 
four  hours  to  come.  You  will  be  surprised, 
I  know,  dear,  to  learn  that  I  am  going  to  New 
York.  You  will  be  sorry  too.  I  shall  be  "  Home 
for  Christmas."  Do  you  know  I  am  awfully 
pleased  that  "  Good  Housekeeping  "  has  featured 
one  of  my  "  letters  that  never  were  written  "  in 
an  enormous  advertisement,  "  Home  for  Christ- 
mas "  !  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that  we  will 
all  be  back  in  Paris  then  and  have  one  of  those 
wonderful  reunions  for  which  we  plan  so  often, 
and  which,  alas  !  do  not  seem  to  come.  I  wonder 
whether  you  will  pass  your  Christmas  in  Petro- 
grad  ?  And  perhaps  I  shall  be  on  the  sea. 

I  never  felt  so  terribly  saying  good-bye  to 
Mother  as  this  time.  You  cannot  think  how 
sweet  she  was,  how  brave  and  truly  charming. 
In  her  prettiest  dress,  her  silver  hair  a  glory 
around  her  face,  she  stood  with  Mabel  in  the 
open  window  of  her  little  house  and  waved  me 
such  a  gallant  good-bye.  Oh,  she  is  a  wonderful 
woman  !  There  is  no  one  like  her.  I  shall  be 

350 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

able  to  bear  old  age,  I  think,  if  year  by  year  I 
grow  more  tender  and  more  understanding  towards 
it.  And  yet  some  one  said  to  me  once  that  the 
best  preparation  for  old  age  was  to  keep  in  touch 
with  the  standpoints  of  the  young. 

It  may  be  hard  in  a  way  to  be  in  New  York 
just  now.  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  find  it. 
It  seems  to  me  from  here  that  the  thirty  million 
Germans  have  multiplied  and  multiplied  until 
they  rule  the  spirit  of  my  country.  But  this 
cannot  be  so — it  cannot  be  so.  I  long  so  deeply 
to  see  in  all  Americans  the  proper  understanding 
of  this  great  issue,  not  an  individual  one,  but  a 
common  one — the  issue  that  should  not  only  try 
men's  souls,  but  make  men's  souls.  America 
does  not  seem  to  realise  that  this  Cause  is  a  cause 
common  to  humanity,  to  Christianity,  and  to 
manhood. 

In  the  old  days,  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
ancestors  of  mine,  French  and  Dutch,  came  to 
America  to  make  their  homeland  there.  In 
those  days  freedom  and  idealism  were  quite 
enough  on  which  to  build  the  foundations  of  a 
country  and  a  state.  I  feel  in  my  soul  that  they 
are  enough  to  build  on  and  to  fight  for  to-day. 

It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  a  patriotic  American 
to  see  his  country  insulted,  the  lives  of  its  pec/le 
sacrificed,  its  property  destroyed  with  wanton 
indifference,  and  to  see  across  its  whole  fair  shape 
the  shadow  of  that  Mailed  Hand  which  is  dis- 
figuring Europe. 

I  followed  through  the  Matin  your  progress 
in  the  East,  and  you  cannot  think  with  what 


WAR  LETTERS  OF  AN  AMERICAN  WOMAN 

intense    interest    I    shall    follow    your    journey 
home. 

London  to-night  is  a  little  darker,  the  lamps, 
once  softened,  are  now  encircled  by  blue  shades, 
and  there  is  a  more  marked  absence  of  men. 
Here  the  evidences  of  what  we  all  know  are 
nevertheless  not  so  great. 

I  might  almost  say  that  under  your  window 
(for  I  stayed  in  your  house  just  now  while  I  was 
in  Paris)  all  day  long  passed  that  sacred  and 
solemn  procession  of  the  wounded,  men  without 
legs  and  arms,  blind,  and  disfigured.  It  seemed 
as  though  those  who  could  walk  at  all  had  been 
turned  into  the  streets  to  make  room  for  the  flood 
of  newly  wounded  men.  It  is  terrible. 

I  embark  to-morrow  with  faith  because  I  have 
such  confidence  in  England,  and  it  has  been  a 
source  somewhat  of  amusement  to  me  when  I 
have  heard  the  United  States  diplomats  flatter 
themselves  that  they  have  affected  submarine 
warfare  by  Notes.  England,  mighty  upon  the 
seas,  has  done  it  all,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for 
their  fleet  and  the  Genius  of  Marine  there  wouldn't 
be  any  Europe  such  as  we  know  it  to-day. 

I  send  my  greetings  to  Robert  and  to  you, 
and  they  will  find  you  on  your  far-off  mission  where 
you  have  gone  to  follow  the  war  in  the  Far  East, 
and  I  send  you  what  is  to  us  all  a  summons  and  a 
hope  :  "  Home  for  Christmas." 

M.  V.  V. 


352 


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